scandal Fr Brown

Title: The Scandal of Father Brown Author: G. K. Chesterton

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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title: The Scandal of Father Brown Author: G. K. Chesterton

ONE: The Scandal of Father Brown

It would not be fair to record the adventures of Father Brown, without admitting that he was once involved in a grave scandal. There still are persons, perhaps even of his own community, who would say that there was a sort of blot upon his name. It happened in a picturesque Mexican road

• house of rather loose repute, as appeared later; and to some it seemed that for once the priest had allowed a romantic streak in him, and his sympathy for human weakness, to lead him into loose and unorthodox action. The story in itself was a simple one; and perhaps the whole surprise of it consisted in its simplicity.

Burning Troy began with Helen; this disgraceful story began with the beauty of Hypatia Potter. Americans have a great power, which Europeans do not always appreciate, of creating institutions from below; that is by popular initiative. Like every other good thing, it has its lighter aspects; one of which, as has been remarked by Mr Wells and others, is that a person may become a public institution without becoming an official institution. A girl of great beauty or brilliancy will be a sort of uncrowned queen, even if she is not a Film Star or the original of a Gibson Girl. Among those who had the fortune, or misfortune, to exist beautifully in public in this manner, was a certain Hypatia Hard, who had passed through the preliminary stage of receiving florid compliments in society paragraphs of the local press, to the position of one who is actually interviewed by real pressmen. On War and Peace and Patriotism and Prohibition and Evolution and the Bible she had made her pronouncements with a charming smile; and if none of them seemed very near to the real grounds of her own reputation, it was almost equally hard to say what the grounds of her reputation really were. Beauty, and being the daughter of a rich man, are things not rare in her country; but to these she added whatever it is that attracts the wandering eye of journalism. Next to none of her admirers had even seen her, or even hoped to do so; and none of them could possibly derive any sordid benefit from her father’s wealth. It was simply a sort of popular romance, the modern substitute for mythology; and it laid the first foundations of the more turgid and tempestuous sort of romance in which she was to figure later on; and in which many held that the reputation of Father Brown, as well as of others, had been blown to rags.

It was accepted, sometimes romantically, sometimes resignedly, by those whom American satire has named the Sob Sisters, that she had already married a very worthy and respectable business man of the name of Potter. It was even possible to regard her for a moment as Mrs Potter, on the universal understanding that her husband was only the husband of Mrs Potter.

Then came the Great Scandal, by which her friends and enemies were horrified beyond their wildest hopes. Her name was coupled (as the queer phrase goes) with a literary man living in Mexico; in status an American, but in spirit a very Spanish American. Unfortunately his vices resembled her virtues, in being good copy. He was no less a person than the famous or infamous Rudel Romanes; the poet whose works had been so universally popularized by being vetoed by libraries or prosecuted by the police. Anyhow, her pure and placid star was seen in conjunction with this comet. He was of the sort to be compared to a comet, being hairy and hot; the first in his portraits, the second in his poetry. He was also destructive; the comet’s tail was a trail of divorces, which some called his success as a lover and some his prolonged failure as a husband. It was hard on Hypatia; there are disadvantages in conducting the perfect private life in public; like a domestic interior in a shop - window. Interviewers reported doubtful utterances about Love’s Larger Law of Supreme Self - Realization. The Pagans applauded. The Sob Sisterhood permitted themselves a note of romantic regret; some having even the hardened audacity to quote from the poem of Maud Mueller, to the effect that of all the words of tongue or pen, the saddest are ‘It might have been.’ And Mr Agar P. Rock, who hated the Sob Sisterhood with a holy and righteous hatred, said that in this case he thoroughly agreed with Bret Harte’s emendation of the poem:

‘More sad are those we daily see; it is, but it hadn’t ought to be.’

For Mr Rock was very firmly and rightly convinced that a very large number of things hadn’t ought to be. He was a slashing and savage critic of national degeneration, on the Minneapolis Meteor, and a bold and honest man. He had perhaps come to specialize too much in the spirit of indignation, but it had had a healthy enough origin in his reaction against sloppy attempts to confuse right and wrong in modern journalism and gossip. He expressed it first in the form of a protest against an unholy halo of romance being thrown round the gunman and the gangster. Perhaps he was rather too much inclined to assume, in robust impatience, that all gangsters were Dagos and that all Dagos were gangsters. But his prejudices, even when they were a little provincial, were rather refreshing after a certain sort of maudlin and unmanly hero - worship, which was ready to regard a professional murderer as a leader of fashion, so long as the pressmen reported that his smile was irresistible or his tuxedo was all right. Anyhow, the prejudices did not boil the less in the bosom of Mr Rock, because he was actually in the land of the Dagos when this story opens; striding furiously up a hill beyond the Mexican border, to the white hotel, fringed with ornamental palms, in which it was supposed that the Potters were staying and that the mysterious Hypatia now held her court. Agar Rock was a good specimen of a Puritan, even to look at; he might even have been a virile Puritan of the seventeenth century, rather than the softer and more sophisticated Puritan of the twentieth. If you had told him that his antiquated black hat and habitual black frown, and fine flinty features, cast a gloom over the sunny land of palms and vines, he would have been very much gratified. He looked to right and left with eyes bright with universal suspicions. And, as he did so, he saw two figures on the ridge above him, outlined against the clear sub - tropical sunset; figures in a momentary posture which might have made even a less suspicious man suspect something.

One of the figures was rather remarkable in itself. It was poised at the exact angle of the turning road above the valley, as if by an instinct for the site as well as the attitude of statuary. It was wrapt in a great black cloak, in the Byronic manner, and the head that rose above it in swarthy beauty was remarkably like Byron’s. This man had the same curling hair and curling nostrils; and he seemed to be snorting something of the same scorn and indignation against the world. He grasped in his hand a rather long cane or walking - stick, which having a spike of the sort used for mountaineering, carried at the moment a fanciful suggestion of a spear. It was rendered all the more fanciful by something comically contradictory in the figure of the other man, who carried an umbrella. It was indeed a new and neatly - rolled umbrella, very different, for instance, from Father Brown’s umbrella: and he was neatly clad like a clerk in light holiday clothes; a stumpy stoutish bearded man; but the prosaic umbrella was raised and even brandished at an acute angle of attack. The taller man thrust back at him, but in a hasty defensive manner; and then the scene rather collapsed into comedy; for the umbrella opened of itself and its owner almost seemed to sink behind it, while the other man had the air of pushing his spear through a great grotesque shield. But the other man did not push it, or the quarrel, very far; he plucked out the point, turned away impatiently and strode down the road; while the other, rising and carefully refolding his umbrella, turned in the opposite direction towards the hotel. Rock had not heard any of the words of the quarrel, which must have immediately preceded this brief and rather absurd bodily conflict; but as he went up the road in the track of the short man with the beard, he revolved many things. And the romantic cloak and rather operatic good looks of the one man, combined with the sturdy self - assertion of the other, fitted in with the whole story which he had come to seek; and he knew that he could have fixed those two strange figures with their names: Romanes and Potter.

His view was in every way confirmed when he entered the pillared porch; and heard the voice of the bearded man raised high in altercation or command. He was evidently speaking to the manager or staff of the hotel, and Rock heard enough to know that he was warning them of a wild and dangerous character in the neighbourhood.

‘If he’s really been to the hotel already,’ the little man was saying, in answer to some murmur, ‘all I can say is that you’d better not let him in again. Your police ought to be looking after a fellow of that sort, but anyhow, I won’t have the lady pestered with him.’

Rock listened in grim silence and growing conviction; then he slid across the vestibule to an alcove where he saw the hotel register and turning to the last page, saw ‘the fellow’ had indeed been to the hotel already. There appeared the name of ‘Rudel Romanes,’ that romantic public character, in very large and florid foreign lettering; and after a space under it, rather close together, the names of Hypatia Potter and Ellis T. Potter, in a correct and quite American handwriting.

Agar Rock looked moodily about him, and saw in the surroundings and even the small decorations of the hotel everything that he hated most. It is perhaps unreasonable to complain of oranges growing on orange - trees, even in small tubs; still more of their only growing on threadbare curtains or faded wallpapers as a formal scheme of ornament. But to him those red and golden moons, decoratively alternated with silver moons, were in a queer way the quintessence of all moonshine. He saw in them all that sentimental deterioration which his principles deplored in modern manners, and which his prejudices vaguely connected with the warmth and softness of the South. It annoyed him even to catch sight of a patch of dark canvas, half - showing a Watteau shepherd with a guitar, or a blue tile with a common - place design of a Cupid on a dolphin. His common sense would have told him that he might have seen these things in a shop - window on Fifth Avenue; but where they were, they seemed like a taunting siren voice of the Paganism of the Mediterranean. And then suddenly, the look of all these things seemed to alter, as a still mirror will flicker when a figure has flashed past it for a moment; and he knew the whole room was full of a challenging presence. He turned almost stiffly, and with a sort of resistance, and knew that he was facing the famous Hypatia, of whom he had read and heard for so many years.

Hypatia Potter, nee Hard, was one of those people to whom the word ‘radiant’ really does apply definitely and derivatively. That is, she allowed what the papers called her Personality to go out from her in rays. She would have been equally beautiful, and to some tastes more attractive, if she had been self - contained; but she had always been taught to believe that self - containment was only selfishness. She would have said that she had lost Self in Service; it would perhaps be truer to say that she had asserted Self in Service; but she was quite in good faith about the service. Therefore her outstanding starry blue eyes really struck outwards, as in the old metaphor that made eyes like Cupid’s darts, killing at a distance; but with an abstract conception of conquest beyond any mere coquetry. Her pale fair hair, though arranged in a saintly halo, had a look of almost electric radiation. And when she understood that the stranger before her was Mr Agar Rock, of the Minneapolis Meteor, her eyes took on themselves the range of long searchlights, sweeping the horizon of the States.

But in this the lady was mistaken; as she sometimes was. For Agar Rock was not Agar Rock of the Minneapolis Meteor. He was at that moment merely Agar Rock; there had surged up in him a great and sincere moral impulsion, beyond the coarse courage of the interviewer. A feeling profoundly mixed of a chivalrous and national sensibility to beauty, with an instant itch for moral action of some definite sort, which was also national, nerved him to face a great scene; and to deliver a noble insult. He remembered the original Hypatia, the beautiful Neo - Platonist, and how he had been thrilled as a boy by Kingsley’s romance in which the young monk denounces her for harlotries and idolatries. He confronted her with an iron gravity and said:

‘If you’ll pardon me. Madam, I should like to have a word with you in private.’

‘Well,’ she said, sweeping the room with her splendid gaze, ‘I don’t know whether you consider this place private.’

Rock also gazed round the room and could see no sign of life less vegetable than the orange trees, except what looked like a large black mushroom, which he recognized as the hat of some native priest or other, stolidly smoking a black local cigar, and otherwise as stagnant as any vegetable. He looked for a moment at the heavy, expressionless features, noting the rudeness of that peasant type from which priests so often come, in Latin and especially Latin - American countries; and lowered his voice a little as he laughed.

‘I don’t imagine that Mexican padre knows our language,’ he said. ‘Catch those lumps of laziness learning any language but their own. Oh, I can’t swear he’s a Mexican; he might be anything; mongrel Indian or nigger, I suppose. But I’ll answer for it he’s not an American. Our ministries don’t produce that debased type.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said the debased type, removing his black cigar, ‘I’m English and my name is Brown. But pray let me leave you if you wish to be private.’

‘If you’re English,’ said Rock warmly, ‘you ought to have some normal Nordic instinct for protesting against all this nonsense. Well, it’s enough to say now that I’m in a position to testify that there’s a pretty dangerous fellow hanging round this place; a tall fellow in a cloak, like those pictures of crazy poets.’

‘Well, you can’t go much by that,’ said the priest mildly; ‘a lot of people round here use those cloaks, because the chill strikes very suddenly after sunset.’

Rock darted a dark and doubtful glance at him; as if suspecting some evasion in the interests of all that was symbolized to him by mushroom hats and moonshine. ‘It wasn’t only the cloak,’ he growled, ‘though it was partly the way he wore it. The whole look of the fellow was theatrical, down to his damned theatrical good looks. And if you’ll forgive me, Madam, I strongly advise you to have nothing to do with him, if he comes bothering here. Your husband has already told the hotel people to keep him out - ’

Hypatia sprang to her feet and, with a very unusual gesture, covered her face, thrusting her fingers into her hair. She seemed to be shaken, possibly with sobs, but by the time she had recovered they had turned into a sort of wild laughter.

‘Oh, you are all too funny,’ she said, and, in a way very unusual with her, ducked and darted to the door and disappeared.

‘Bit hysterical when they laugh like that,’ said Rock uncomfortably; then, rather at a loss, and turning to the little priest: ‘as I say, if you’re English, you ought really to be on my side against these Dagos, anyhow. Oh, I’m not one of those who talk tosh about Anglo - Saxons; but there is such a thing as history. You can always claim that America got her civilization from England.’

‘Also, to temper our pride,’ said Father Brown, ‘we must always admit that England got her civilization from Dagos.’

Again there glowed in the other’s mind the exasperated sense that his interlocutor was fencing with him, and fencing on the wrong side, in some secret and evasive way; and he curtly professed a failure to comprehend.

‘Well, there was a Dago, or possibly a Wop, called Julius Caesar,’ said Father Brown; ‘he was afterwards killed in a stabbing match; you know these Dagos always use knives. And there was another one called Augustine, who brought Christianity to our little island; and really, I don’t think we should have had much civilization without those two.’

‘Anyhow, that’s all ancient history,’ said the somewhat irritated journalist, ‘and I’m very much interested in modern history. What I see is that these scoundrels are bringing Paganism to our country, and destroying all the Christianity there is. Also destroying all the common sense there is. All settled habits, all solid social order, all the way in which the farmers who were our fathers and grandfathers did manage to live in the world, melted into a hot mush by sensations and sensualities about filmstars who divorced every month or so, and make every silly girl think that marriage is only a way of getting divorced.’

‘You are quite right,’ said Father Brown. ‘Of course I quite agree with you there. But you must make some allowances. Perhaps these Southern people are a little prone to that sort of fault. You must remember that Northern people have other kinds of faults. Perhaps these surroundings do encourage people to give too rich an importance to mere romance.’

The whole integral indignation of Agar Rock’s life rose up within him at the word.

‘I hate Romance,’ he said, hitting the little table before him. ‘I’ve fought the papers I worked for for forty years about the infernal trash. Every blackguard bolting with a barmaid is called a romantic elopement or something; and now our own Hypatia Hard, a daughter of a decent people, may get dragged into some rotten romantic divorce case, that will be trumpeted to the whole world as happily as a royal wedding. This mad poet Romanes is hanging round her; and you bet the spotlight will follow him, as if he were any rotten little Dago who is called the Great Lover on the films. I saw him outside; and he’s got the regular spotlight face. Now my sympathies are with decency and common sense. My sympathies are with poor Potter, a plain straightforward broker from Pittsburgh, who thinks he has a right to his own home. And he’s making a fight for it, too. I heard him hollering at the management, telling them to keep that rascal out; and quite right too. The people here seem a sly and slinky lot; but I rather fancy he’s put the fear of God into them already.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Father Brown, ‘I rather agree with you about the manager and the men in this hotel; but you mustn’t judge all Mexicans by them. Also I fancy the gentleman you speak of has not only hollered, but handed round dollars enough to get the whole staff on his side. I saw them locking doors and whispering most excitedly. By the way, your plain straightforward friend seems to have a lot of money.’

‘I’ve no doubt his business does well,’ said Rock. ‘He’s quite the best type of sound business man. What do you mean?’

‘I fancied it might suggest another thought to you,’ said Father Brown; and, rising with rather heavy civility, he left the room.

Rock watched the Potters very carefully that evening at dinner; and gained some new impressions, though none that disturbed his deep sense of the wrong that probably threatened the peace of the Potter home. Potter himself proved worthy of somewhat closer study; though the journalist had at first accepted him as prosaic and unpretentious, there was a pleasure in recognizing finer lines in what he considered the hero or victim of a tragedy. Potter had really rather a thoughtful and distinguished face, though worried and occasionally petulant. Rock got an impression that the man was recovering from an illness; his faded hair was thin but rather long, as if it had been lately neglected, and his rather unusual beard gave the onlooker the same notion. Certainly he spoke once or twice to his wife in a rather sharp and acid manner, fussing about tablets or some detail of digestive science; but his real worry was doubtless concerned with the danger from without. His wife played up to him in the splendid if somewhat condescending manner of a Patient Griselda; but her eyes also roamed continually to the doors and shutters, as if in half - hearted fear of an invasion. Rock had only too good reason to dread, after her curious outbreak, the fact that her fear might turn out to be only half - hearted.

It was in the middle of the night that the extraordinary event occurred. Rock, imagining himself to be the last to go up to bed, was surprised to find Father Brown still tucked obscurely under an orange - tree in the hall, and placidly reading a book. He returned the other’s farewell without further words, and the journalist had his foot on the lowest step of the stair, when suddenly the outer door sprang on its hinges and shook and rattled under the shock of blows planted from without; and a great voice louder than the blows was heard violently demanding admission. Somehow the journalist was certain that the blows had been struck with a pointed stick like an alpenstock. He looked back at the darkened lower floor, and saw the servants of the hotel sliding here and there to see that the doors were locked; and not unlocking them. Then he slowly mounted to his room, and sat down furiously to write his report.

He described the siege of the hotel; the evil atmosphere; the shabby luxury of the place; the shifty evasions of the priest; above all, that terrible voice crying without, like a wolf prowling round the house. Then, as he wrote, he heard a new sound and sat up suddenly. It was a long repeated whistle, and in his mood he hated it doubly, because it was like the signal of a conspirator and like the love - call of a bird. There followed an utter silence, in which he sat rigid; then he rose abruptly; for he had heard yet another noise. It was a faint swish followed by a sharp rap or rattle; and he was almost certain that somebody was throwing something at the window. He walked stiffly downstairs, to the floor which was now dark and deserted; or nearly deserted. For the little priest was still sitting under the orange shrub, lit by a low lamp; and still reading his book.

‘You seem to be sitting up late,’ he said harshly.

‘Quite a dissipated character,’ said Father Brown, looking up with a broad smile, ‘reading Economics of Usury at all wild hours of the night.’

‘The place is locked up,’ said Rock.

‘Very thoroughly locked up,’ replied the other. ‘Your friend with the beard seems to have taken every precaution. By the way, your friend with the beard is a little rattled; I thought he was rather cross at dinner.’

‘Natural enough,’ growled the other, ‘if he thinks savages in this savage place are out to wreck his home life.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better,’ said Father Brown, ‘if a man tried to make his home life nice inside, while he was protecting it from the things outside.’

‘Oh, I know you will work up all the casuistical excuses,’ said the other; ‘perhaps he was rather snappy with his wife; but he’s got the right on his side. Look here, you seem to me to be rather a deep dog. I believe you know more about this than you say. What the devil is going on in this infernal place? Why are you sitting up all night to see it through?’

‘Well,’ said Father Brown patiently, ‘I rather thought my bedroom might be wanted.’

‘Wanted by whom?’

‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Potter wanted another room,’ explained Father Brown with limpid clearness. ‘I gave her mine, because I could open the window. Go and see, if you like.’

‘I’ll see to something else first,’ said Rock grinding his teeth. ‘You can play your monkey tricks in this Spanish monkey - house, but I’m still in touch with civilization.’ He strode into the telephone - booth and rang up his paper; pouring out the whole tale of the wicked priest who helped the wicked poet. Then he ran upstairs into the priest’s room, in which the priest had just lit a short candle, showing the windows beyond wide open.

He was just in time to see a sort of rude - ladder unhooked from the window - sill and rolled up by a laughing gentleman on the lawn below. The laughing gentleman was a tall and swarthy gentleman, and was accompanied by a blonde but equally laughing lady. This time, Mr Rock could not even comfort himself by calling her laughter hysterical. It was too horribly genuine; and rang down the rambling garden - paths as she and her troubadour disappeared into the dark thickets.

Agar Rock turned on his companion a face of final and awful justice; like the Day of Judgement.

‘Well, all America is going to hear of this,’ he said. ‘In plain words, you helped her to bolt with that curly - haired lover.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, ‘I helped her to bolt with that curly - haired lover.’

‘You call yourself a minister of Jesus Christ,’ cried Rock, ‘and you boast of a crime.’

‘I have been mixed up with several crimes,’ said the priest gently. ‘Happily for once this is a story without a crime. This is a simple fire

• side idyll; that ends with a glow of domesticity.’

‘And ends with a rope - ladder instead of a rope,’ said Rock. ‘Isn’t she a married woman?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Father Brown.

‘Well, oughtn’t she to be with her husband?’ demanded Rock.

‘She is with her husband,’ said Father Brown.

The other was startled into anger. ‘You lie,’ he said. ‘The poor little man is still snoring in bed.’

‘You seem to know a lot about his private affairs,’ said Father Brown plaintively. ‘You could almost write a life of the Man with a Beard. The only thing you don’t seem ever to have found out about him is his name.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Rock. ‘His name is in the hotel book.’

‘I know it is,’ answered the priest, nodding gravely, ‘in very large letters; the name of Rudel Romanes. Hypatia Potter, who met him here, put her name boldly under his, when she meant to elope with him; and her husband put his name under that, when he pursued them to this place. He put it very close under hers, by way of protest. The Romanes (who has pots of money, as a popular misanthrope despising men) bribed the brutes in this hotel to bar and bolt it and keep the lawful husband out. And I, as you truly say, helped him to get in.’

When a man is told something that turns things upside - down; that the tail wags the dog; that the fish has caught the fisherman; that the earth goes round the moon; he takes some little time before he even asks seriously if it is true. He is still content with the consciousness that it is the opposite of the obvious truth. Rock said at last: ‘You don’t mean that little fellow is the romantic Rudel we’re always reading about; and that curly haired fellow is Mr Potter of Pittsburgh.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown. ‘I knew it the moment I clapped eyes on both of them. But I verified it afterwards.’

Rock ruminated for a time and said at last: ‘I suppose it’s barely possible you’re right. But how did you come to have such a notion, in the face of the facts?’

Father Brown looked rather abashed; subsided into a chair, and stared into vacancy, until a faint smile began to dawn on his round and rather foolish face.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you see - the truth is, I’m not romantic.’

‘I don’t know what the devil you are,’ said Rock roughly.

‘Now you are romantic,’ said Father Brown helpfully. ‘For instance, you see somebody looking poetical, and you assume he is a poet. Do you know what the majority of poets look like? What a wild confusion was created by that coincidence of three good - looking aristocrats at the beginning of the nineteenth century: Byron and Goethe and Shelley! Believe me, in the common way, a man may write: “Beauty has laid her flaming lips on mine,” or whatever that chap wrote, without being himself particularly beautiful. Besides, do you realize how old a man generally is by the time his fame has filled the world? Watts painted Swinburne with a halo of hair; but Swinburne was bald before most of his last American or Australian admirers had heard of his hyacinthine locks. So was D’Annunzio. As a fact, Romanes still has rather a fine head, as you will see if you look at it closely; he looks like an intellectual man; and he is. Unfortunately, like a good many other intellectual men, he’s a fool. He’s let himself go to seed with selfishness and fussing about his digestion. So that the ambitious American lady, who thought it would be like soaring to Olympus with the Nine Muses to elope with a poet, found that a day or so of it was about enough for her. So that when her husband came after her, and stormed the place, she was delighted to go back to him.’

‘But her husband?’ queried Rock. ‘I am still rather puzzled about her husband.’

‘Ah, you’ve been reading too many of your erotic modern novels,’ said Father Brown; and partly closed his eyes in answer to the protesting glare of the other. ‘I know a lot of stories start with a wildly beautiful woman wedded to some elderly swine in the stock market. But why? In that, as in most things, modern novels are the very reverse of modern. I don’t say it never happens; but it hardly ever happens now except by her own fault. Girls nowadays marry whom they like; especially spoilt girls like Hypatia. And whom do they marry? A beautiful wealthy girl like that would have a ring of admirers; and whom would she choose? The chances are a hundred to one that she’d marry very young and choose the handsomest man she met at a dance or a tennis - party. Well, ordinary business men are sometimes handsome. A young god appeared (called Potter) and she wouldn’t care if he was a broker or a burglar. But, given the environment, you will admit it’s more likely he would be a broker; also, it’s quite likely that he’d be called Potter. You see, you are so incurably romantic that your whole case was founded on the idea that a man looking like a young god couldn’t be called Potter. Believe me, names are not so appropriately distributed.’

‘Well,’ said the other, after a short pause, ‘and what do you suppose happened after that?’

Father Brown got up rather abruptly from the seat in which he had collapsed; the candlelight threw the shadow of his short figure across the wall and ceiling, giving an odd impression that the balance of the room had been altered.

‘Ah,’ he muttered, ‘that’s the devil of it. That’s the real devil. Much worse than the old Indian demons in this jungle. You thought I was only making out a case for the loose ways of these Latin Americans - well, the queer thing about you’ - and he blinked owlishly at the other through his spectacles - ‘the queerest thing about you is that in a way you’re right.

‘You say down with romance. I say I’d take my chance in fighting the genuine romances - all the more because they are precious few, outside the first fiery days of youth. I say - take away the Intellectual Friendships; take away the Platonic Unions; take away the Higher Laws of Self - Fulfilment and the rest, and I’ll risk the normal dangers of the job. Take away the love that isn’t love, but only pride and vainglory and publicity and making a splash; and we’ll take our chance of fighting the love that is love, when it has to be fought, as well as the love that is lust and lechery. Priests know young people will have passions, as doctors know they will have measles. But Hypatia Potter is forty if she is a day, and she cares no more for that little poet than if he were her publisher or her publicity man. That’s just the point - he was her publicity man. It’s your newspapers that have ruined her; it’s living in the limelight; it’s wanting to see herself in the headlines, even in a scandal if it were only sufficiently psychic and superior. It’s wanting to be George Sand, her name immortally linked with Alfred de Musset. When her real romance of youth was over, it was the sin of middle age that got hold of her; the sin of intellectual ambition. She hasn’t got any intellect to speak of; but you don’t need any intellect to be an intellectual.’

‘I should say she was pretty brainy in one sense,’ observed Rock reflectively.

‘Yes, in one sense,’ said Father Brown. ‘In only one sense. In a business sense. Not in any sense that has anything to do with these poor lounging Dagos down here. You curse the Film Stars and tell me you hate romance. Do you suppose the Film Star, who is married for the fifth time, is misled by any romance? Such people are very practical; more practical than you are. You say you admire the simple solid Business Man. Do you suppose that Rudel Romanes isn’t a Business Man? Can’t you see he knew, quite as well as she did, the advertising advantages of this grand affair with a famous beauty. He also knew very well that his hold on it was pretty insecure; hence his fussing about and bribing servants to lock doors. But what I mean to say, first and last, is that there’d be a lot less scandal if people didn’t idealize sin and pose as sinners. These poor Mexicans may seem sometimes to live like beasts, or rather sin like men; but they don’t go in for Ideals. You must at least give them credit for that.’

He sat down again, as abruptly as he had risen, and laughed apologetically. ‘Well, Mr Rock,’ he said, ‘that is my complete confession; the whole horrible story of how I helped a romantic elopement. You can do what you like with it.’

‘In that case,’ said Rock, rising, ‘I will go to my room and make a few alterations in my report. But, first of all, I must ring up my paper and tell them I’ve been telling them a pack of lies.’

Not much more than half an hour had passed, between the time when Rock had telephoned to say the priest was helping the poet to run away with the lady, and the time when he telephoned to say that the priest had prevented the poet from doing precisely the same thing. But in that short interval of time was born and enlarged and scattered upon the winds the Scandal of Father Brown. The truth is still half an hour behind the slander; and nobody can be certain when or where it will catch up with it. The garrulity of pressmen and the eagerness of enemies had spread the first story through the city, even before it appeared in the first printed version. It was instantly corrected and contradicted by Rock himself, in a second message stating how the story had really ended; but it was by no means certain that the first story was killed. A positively incredible number of people seemed to have read the first issue of the paper and not the second. Again and again, in every corner of the world, like a flame bursting from blackened ashes, there would appear the old tale of the Brown Scandal, or Priest Ruins Potter Home. Tireless apologists of the priest’s party watched for it, and patiently tagged after it with contradictions and exposures and letters of protest. Sometimes the letters were published in the papers; and sometimes they were not. But still nobody knew how many people had heard the story without hearing the contradiction. It was possible to find whole blocks of blameless and innocent people who thought the Mexican Scandal was an ordinary recorded historical incident like the Gunpowder Plot. Then somebody would enlighten these simple people, only to discover that the old story had started afresh among a few quite educated people, who would seem the last people on earth to be duped by it. And so the two Father Browns chase each other round the world for ever; the first a shameless criminal fleeing from justice; the second a martyr broken by slander, in a halo of rehabilitation. But neither of them is very like the real Father Brown, who is not broken at all; but goes stumping with his stout umbrella through life, liking most of the people in it; accepting the world as his companion, but never as his judge.

TWO: The Quick One

The strange story of the incongruous strangers is still remembered along that strip of the Sussex coast, where the large and quiet hotel called the Maypole and Garland looks across its own gardens to the sea. Two quaintly assorted figures did, indeed, enter that quiet hotel on that sunny afternoon; one being conspicuous in the sunlight, and visible over the whole shore, by the fact of wearing a lustrous green turban, surrounding a brown face and a black beard; the other would have seemed to some even more wild and weird, by reason of his wearing a soft black clergyman’s hat with a yellow moustache and yellow hair of leonine length. He at least had often been seen preaching on the sands or conducting Band of Hope services with a little wooden spade; only he had certainly never been seen going into the bar of an hotel. The arrival of these quaint companions was the climax of the story, but not the beginning of it; and, in order to make a rather mysterious story as clear as possible, it is better to begin at the beginning.

Half an hour before those two conspicuous figures entered the hotel, and were noticed by everybody, two other very inconspicuous figures had also entered it, and been noticed by nobody. One was a large man, and handsome in a heavy style, but he had a knack of taking up very little room, like a background; only an almost morbidly suspicious examination of his boots would have told anybody that he was an Inspector of Police in plain clothes; in very plain clothes. The other was a drab and insignificant little man, also in plain clothes, only that they happened to be clerical clothes; but nobody had ever seen him preaching on the sands.

These travellers also found themselves in a sort of large smoking - room with a bar, for a reason which determined all the events of that tragic afternoon. The truth is that the respectable hotel called the Maypole and Garland was being ‘done - up’. Those who had liked it in the past were moved to say that it was being done down; or possibly done in. This was the opinion of the local grumbler, Mr Raggley, the eccentric old gentleman who drank cherry brandy in a corner and cursed. Anyhow, it was being carefully stripped of all the stray indications that it had once been an English inn; and being busily turned, yard by yard and room by room, into something resembling the sham palace of a Levantine usurer in an American film. It was, in short, being ‘decorated’; but the only part where the decoration was complete, and where customers could yet be made comfortable, was this large room leading out of the hall. It had once been honourably known as a Bar Parlour and was now mysteriously known as a Saloon Lounge, and was newly ‘decorated’, in the manner of an Asiatic Divan. For Oriental ornament pervaded the new scheme; and where there had once been a gun hung on hooks, and sporting prints and a stuffed fish in a glass case, there were now festoons of Eastern drapery and trophies of scimitars, tulwards and yataghans, as if in unconscious preparation for the coming of the gentleman with the turban. The practical point was, however, that the few guests who did arrive had to be shepherded into this lounge, now swept and garnished, because all the more regular and refined parts of the hotel were still in a state of transition. Perhaps that was also the reason why even those few guests were somewhat neglected, the manager and others being occupied with explanations or exhortations elsewhere. Anyhow, the first two travellers who arrived had to kick their heels for some time unattended. The bar was at the moment entirely empty, and the Inspector rang and rapped impatiently on the counter; but the little clergyman had already dropped into a lounge seat and seemed in no hurry for anything. Indeed his friend the policeman, turning his head, saw that the round face of the little cleric had gone quite blank, as it had a way of doing sometimes; he seemed to be staring through his moonlike spectacles at the newly decorated wall.

‘I may as well offer you a penny for your thoughts,’ said Inspector Greenwood, turning from the counter with a sigh, ‘as nobody seems to want my pennies for anything else. This seems to be the only room in the house that isn’t full of ladders and whitewash; and this is so empty that there isn’t even a potboy to give me a pot of beer.’

‘Oh … my thoughts are not worth a penny, let alone a pot of beer,’ answered the cleric, wiping his spectacles, ‘I don’t know why … but I was thinking how easy it would be to commit a murder here.’

‘It’s all very well for you. Father Brown,’ said the Inspector good - humouredly. ‘You’ve had a lot more murders than your fair share; and we poor policemen sit starving all our lives, even for a little one. But why should you say … Oh I see, you’re looking at all those Turkish daggers on the wall. There are plenty of things to commit a murder with, if that’s what you mean. But not more than there are in any ordinary kitchen: carving knives or pokers or what not. That isn’t where the snag of a murder comes in.’

Father Brown seemed to recall his rambling thoughts in some bewilderment; and said that he supposed so.

‘Murder is always easy,’ said Inspector Greenwood. ‘There can’t possibly be anything more easy than murder. I could murder you at this minute - more easily than I can get a drink in this damned bar. The only difficulty is committing a murder without committing oneself as a murderer. It’s this shyness about owning up to a murder; it’s this silly modesty of murderers about their own masterpieces, that makes the trouble. They will stick to this extraordinary fixed idea of killing people without being found out; and that’s what restrains them, even in a room full of daggers. Otherwise every cutler’s shop would be piled with corpses. And that, by the way, explains the one kind of murder that really can’t be prevented. Which is why, of course, we poor bobbies are always blamed for not preventing it. When a madman murders a King or a President, it can’t be prevented. You can’t make a King live in a coal - cellar, or carry about a President in a steel box. Anybody can murder him who does not mind being a murderer. That is where the madman is like the martyr - sort of beyond this world. A real fanatic can always kill anybody he likes.’

Before the priest could reply, a joyous band of bagmen rolled into the room like a shoal of porpoises; and the magnificent bellow of a big, beaming man, with an equally big and beaming tie - pin, brought the eager and obsequious manager running like a dog to the whistle, with a rapidity which the police in plain clothes had failed to inspire.

‘I’m sure I’m very sorry, Mr Jukes,’ said the manager, who wore a rather agitated smile and a wave or curl of very varnished hair across his forehead. ‘We’re rather understaffed at present; and I had to attend to something in the hotel, Mr Jukes.’

Mr Jukes was magnanimous, but in a noisy way; and ordered drinks all round, conceding one even to the almost cringing manager. Mr Jukes was a traveller for a very famous and fashionable wine and spirits firm; and may have conceived himself as lawfully the leader in such a place. Anyhow, he began a boisterous monologue, rather tending to tell the manager how to manage his hotel; and the others seemed to accept him as an authority. The policeman and the priest had retired to a low bench and small table in the background, from which they watched events, up to that rather remarkable moment when the policeman had very decisively to intervene.

For the next thing that happened, as already narrated, was the astonishing apparition of a brown Asiatic in a green turban, accompanied by the (if possible) more astonishing apparition of a Noncomformist minister; omens such as appear before a doom. In this case there was no doubt about evidence for the portent. A taciturn but observant boy cleaning the steps for the last hour (being a leisurely worker), the dark, fat, bulky bar - attendant, even the diplomatic but distracted manager, all bore witness to the miracle.

The apparitions, as the sceptics say, were due to perfectly natural causes. The man with the mane of yellow hair and the semi - clerical clothes was not only familiar as a preacher on the sands, but as a propagandist throughout the modern world. He was no less a person than the Rev. David Pryce - Jones, whose far - resounding slogan was Prohibition and Purification for Our Land and the Britains Overseas. He as an excellent public speaker and organizer; and an idea had occurred to him that ought to have occurred to Prohibitionists long ago. It was the simple idea that, if Prohibition is right, some honour is due to the Prophet who was perhaps the first Prohibitionist. He had corresponded with the leaders of Mahommedan religious thought, and had finally induced a distinguished Moslem (one of whose names was Akbar and the rest an untranslatable ululation of Allah with attributes) to come and lecture in England on the ancient Moslem veto on wine. Neither of them certainly had been in a public - house bar before; but they had come there by the process already described; driven from the genteel tea - rooms, shepherded into the newly - decorated saloon. Probably all would have been well, if the great Prohibitionist, in his innocence, had not advanced to the counter and asked for a glass of milk.

The commercial travellers, though a kindly race, emitted involuntary noises of pain; a murmur of suppressed jests was heard, as ‘Shun the bowl,’ or ‘Better bring out the cow’. But the magnificent Mr Jukes, feeling it due to his wealth and tie - pin to produce more refined humour, fanned himself as one about to faint, and said pathetically: ‘They know they can knock me down with a feather. They know a breath will blow me away. They know my doctor says I’m not to have these shocks. And they come and drink cold milk in cold blood, before my very eyes.’

The Rev. David Pryce - Jones, accustomed to deal with hecklers at public meetings, was so unwise as to venture on remonstrance and recrimination, in this very different and much more popular atmosphere. The Oriental total abstainer abstained from speech as well as spirits; and certainly gained in dignity by doing so. In fact, so far as he was concerned, the Moslem culture certainly scored a silent victory; he was obviously so much more of a gentleman than the commercial gentlemen, that a faint irritation began to arise against his aristocratic aloofness; and when Mr Pryce - Jones began to refer in argument to something of the kind, the tension became very acute indeed.

‘I ask you, friends,’ said Mr Pryce - Jones, with expansive platform gestures, ‘why does our friend here set an example to us Christians in truly Christian self - control and brotherhood? Why does he stand here as a model of true Christianity, of real refinement, of genuine gentlemanly behaviour, amid all the quarrels and riots of such places as these? Because, whatever the doctrinal differences between us, at least in his soil the evil plant, the accursed hop or vine, has never - ’

At this crucial moment of the controversy it was that John Raggley, the stormy petrel of a hundred storms of controversy, red - faced, white - haired, his antiquated top - hat on the back of his head, his stick swinging like a club, entered the house like an invading army.

John Raggley was generally regarded as a crank. He was the sort of man who writes letters to the newspaper, which generally do not appear in the newspaper; but which do appear afterwards as pamphlets, printed (or misprinted) at his own expense; and circulated to a hundred waste - paper baskets. He had quarrelled alike with the Tory squires and the Radical County Councils; he hated Jews; and he distrusted nearly everything that is sold in shops, or even in hotels. But there was a backing of facts behind his fads; he knew the county in every corner and curious detail; and he was a sharp observer. Even the manager, a Mr Wills, had a shadowy respect for Mr Raggley, having a nose for the sort of lunacy allowed in the gentry; not indeed the prostrate reverence which he had for the jovial magnificence of Mr Jukes, who was really good for trade, but a least a disposition to avoid quarrelling with the old grumbler, partly perhaps out of fear of the old grumbler’s tongue.

‘And you will have your usual, Sir,’ said Mr Wills, leaning and leering across the counter.

‘It’s the only decent stuff you’ve still got,’ snorted Mr Raggley, slapping down his queer and antiquated hat. ‘Damn it, I sometimes think the only English thing left in England is cherry brandy. Cherry brandy does taste of cherries. Can you find me any beer that tastes of hops, or any cider that tastes of apples, or any wine that has the remotest indication of being made out of grapes? There’s an infernal swindle going on now in every inn in the country, that would have raised a revolution in any other country. I’ve found out a thing or two about it, I can tell you. You wait till I can get it printed, and people will sit up. If I could stop our people being poisoned with all this bad drink - ’

Here again the Rev. David Pryce - Jones showed a certain failure in tact; though it was a virtue he almost worshipped. He was so unwise as to attempt to establish an alliance with Mr Raggley, by a fine confusion between the idea of bad drink and the idea that drink is bad. Once more he endeavoured to drag his stiff and stately Eastern friend into the argument, as a refined foreigner superior to our rough English ways. He was even so foolish as to talk of a broad theological outlook; and ultimately to mention the name of Mahomet, which was echoed in a sort of explosion.

‘God damn your soul!’ roared Mr Raggley, with a less broad theological outlook. ‘Do you mean that Englishmen mustn’t drink English beer, because wine was forbidden in a damned desert by that dirty old humbug Mahomet?’

In an instant the Inspector of Police had reached the middle of the room with a stride. For, the instant before that, a remarkable change had taken place in the demeanour of the Oriental gentleman, who had hitherto stood perfectly still, with steady and shining eyes. He now proceeded, as his friend had said, to set an example in truly Christian self - control and brotherhood by reaching the wall with the bound of a tiger, tearing down one of the heavy knives hanging there and sending it smack like a stone from a sling, so that it stuck quivering in the wall exactly half an inch above Mr Raggley’s ear. It would undoubtedly have stuck quivering in Mr Raggley, if Inspector Greenwood had not been just in time to jerk the arm and deflect the aim. Father Brown continued in his seat, watching the scene with screwed - up eyes and a screw of something almost like a smile at the corners of his mouth, as if he saw something beyond the mere momentary violence of the quarrel.

And then the quarrel took a curious turn; which may not be understood by everybody, until men like Mr John Raggley are better understood than they are. For the red - faced old fanatic was standing up and laughing uproariously as if it were the best joke he had ever heard. All his snapping vituperation and bitterness seemed to have gone out of him; and he regarded the other fanatic, who had just tried to murder him, with a sort of boisterous benevolence.

‘Blast your eyes,’ he said, ‘you’re the first man I’ve met in twenty years!’

‘Do you charge this man, Sir?’ said the Inspector, looking doubtful.

‘Charge him, of course not,’ said Raggley. ‘I’d stand him a drink if he were allowed any drinks. I hadn’t any business to insult his religion; and I wish to God all you skunks had the guts to kill a man, I won’t say for insulting your religion, because you haven’t got any, but for insulting anything - even your beer.’

‘Now he’s called us all skunks,’ said Father Brown to Greenwood, ‘peace and harmony seem to be restored. I wish that teetotal lecturer could get himself impaled on his friend’s knife; it was he who made all the mischief.’

As he spoke, the odd groups in the room were already beginning to break up; it had been found possible to clear the commercial room for the commercial travellers, and they adjourned to it, the potboy carrying a new round of drinks after them on a tray. Father Brown stood for a moment gazing at the glasses left on the counter; recognizing at once the ill - omened glass of milk, and another which smelt of whisky; and then turned just in time to see the parting between those two quaint figures, fanatics of the East and West. Raggley was still ferociously genial; there was still something a little darkling and sinister about the Moslem, which was perhaps natural; but he bowed himself out with grave gestures of dignified reconciliation; and there was every indication that the trouble was really over.

Some importance, however, continued attached, in the mind of Father Brown at least, to the memory and interpretation of those last courteous salutes between the combatants. Because curiously enough, when Father Brown came down very early next morning, to perform his religious duties in the neighbourhood, he found the long saloon bar, with its fantastic Asiatic decoration, filled with a dead white light of daybreak in which every detail was distinct; and one of the details was the dead body of John Raggley bent and crushed into a corner of the room, with the heavy

• hilted crooked dagger rammed through his heart.

Father Brown went very softly upstairs again and summoned his friend the Inspector; and the two stood beside the corpse, in a house in which no one else was as yet stirring. ‘We mustn’t either assume or avoid the obvious,’ said Greenwood after a silence, ‘but it is well to remember, I think, what I was saying to you yesterday afternoon. It’s rather odd, by the way, that I should have said it - yesterday afternoon.’

‘I know,’ said the priest, nodding with an owlish stare.

‘I said,’ observed Greenwood, ‘that the one sort of murder we can’t stop is murder by somebody like a religious fanatic. That brown fellow probably thinks that if he’s hanged, he’ll go straight to Paradise for defending the honour of the Prophet.’

‘There is that, of course,’ said Father Brown. ‘It would be very reasonable, so to speak, of our Moslem friend to have stabbed him. And you may say we don’t know of anybody else yet, who could at all reasonably have stabbed him. But… but I was thinking … ’ And his round face suddenly went blank again and all speech died on his lips.

‘What’s the matter now?’ asked the other.

‘Well, I know it sounds funny,’ said Father Brown in a forlorn voice. ‘But I was thinking … I was thinking, in a way, it doesn’t much matter who stabbed him.’

‘Is this the New Morality?’ asked his friend. ‘Or the old Casuistry, perhaps. Are the Jesuits really going in for murder?’

‘I didn’t say it didn’t matter who murdered him,’ said Father Brown. ‘Of course the man who stabbed him might possibly be the man who murdered him. But it might be quite a different man. Anyhow, it was done at quite a different time. I suppose you’ll want to work on the hilt for finger - prints; but don’t take too much notice of them. I can imagine other reasons for other people sticking this knife in the poor old boy. Not very edifying reasons, of course, but quite distinct from the murder. You’ll have to put some more knives into him, before you find out about that.’

‘You mean - ’ began the other, watching him keenly.

‘I mean the autopsy,’ said the priest, ‘to find the real cause of death.’

‘You’re quite right, I believe,’ said the Inspector, ‘about the stabbing, anyhow. We must wait for the doctor; but I’m pretty sure he’ll say you’re right. There isn’t blood enough. This knife was stuck in the corpse when it had been cold for hours. But why?’

‘Possibly to put the blame on the Mahommedan,’ answered Father Brown. ‘Pretty mean, I admit, but not necessarily murder. I fancy there are people in this place trying to keep secrets, who are not necessarily murderers.’

‘I haven’t speculated on that line yet,’ said Greenwood. ‘What makes you think so?’

‘What I said yesterday, when we first came into this horrible room. I said it would be easy to commit a murder here. But I wasn’t thinking about all those stupid weapons, though you thought I was. About something quite different.’

For the next few hours the Inspector and his friend conducted a close and thorough investigation into the goings and comings of everybody for the last twenty - four hours, the way the drinks had been distributed, the glasses that were washed or unwashed, and every detail about every individual involved, or apparently not involved. One might have supposed they thought that thirty people had been poisoned, as well as one.

It seemed certain that nobody had entered the building except by the big entrance that adjoined the bar; all the others were blocked in one way or another by the repairs. A boy had been cleaning the steps outside this entrance; but he had nothing very clear to report. Until the amazing entry of the Turk in the Turban, with his teetotal lecturer, there did not seem to have been much custom of any kind, except for the commercial travellers who came in to take what they called ‘quick ones’; and they seemed to have moved together, like Wordsworth’s Cloud; there was a slight difference of opinion between the boy outside and the men inside about whether one of them had not been abnormally quick in obtaining a quick one, and come out on the doorstep by himself; but the manager and the barman had no memory of any such independent individual. The manager and the barman knew all the travellers quite well, and there was no doubt about their movements as a whole. They had stood at the bar chaffing and drinking; they had been involved, through their lordly leader, Mr Jukes, in a not very serious altercation with Mr Pryce - Jones; and they had witnessed the sudden and very serious altercation between Mr Akbar and Mr Raggley. Then they were told they could adjourn to the Commercial Room and did so, their drinks being borne after them like a trophy.

‘There’s precious little to go on,’ said Inspector Greenwood. ‘Of course a lot of officious servants must do their duty as usual, and was out all the glasses; including old Raggley’s glass. If it weren’t for everybody else’s efficiency, we detectives might be quite efficient.’

‘I know,’ said Father Brown, and his mouth took on again the twisted smile. ‘I sometimes think criminals invented hygiene. Or perhaps hygienic reformers invented crime; they look like it, some of them. Everybody talks about foul dens and filthy slums in which crime can run riot; but it’s just the other way. They are called foul, not because crimes are committed, but because crimes are discovered. It’s in the neat, spotless, clean and tidy places that crime can run riot; no mud to make footprints; no dregs to contain poison; kind servants washing out all traces of the murder; and the murderer killing and cremating six wives and all for want of a little Christian dirt. Perhaps I express myself with too much warmth - but look here. As it happens, I do remember one glass, which has doubtless been cleaned since, but I should like to know more about it.”

‘Do you mean Raggley’s glass?’ asked Greenwood.

‘No; I mean Nobody’s glass,’ replied the priest. ‘It stood near that glass of milk and it still held an inch or two of whisky. Well, you and I had no whisky. I happen to remember that the manager, when treated by the jovial Jukes, had “a drop of gin”. I hope you don’t suggest that our Moslem was a whisky - drinker disguised in a green turban; or that the Rev. David Pryce - Jones managed to drink whisky and milk together, without noticing it.’

‘Most of the commercial travellers took whisky,’ said the Inspector. ‘They generally do.’

‘Yes; and they generally see they get it too,’ answered Father Brown. ‘In this case, they had it all carefully carted after them to their own room. But this glass was left behind.’

‘An accident, I suppose,’ said Greenwood doubtfully. ‘The man could easily get another in the Commercial Room afterwards.’

Father Brown shook his head. ‘You’ve got to see people as they are. Now these sort of men - well, some call them vulgar and some common; but that’s all likes and dislikes. I’d be content to say that they are mostly simple men. Lots of them very good men, very glad to go back to the missus and the kids; some of them might be blackguards; might have had several missuses; or even murdered several missuses. But most of them are simple men; and, mark you, just the least tiny bit drunk. Not much; there’s many a duke or don at Oxford drunker; but when that sort of man is at that stage of conviviality, he simply can’t help noticing things, and noticing them very loud. Don’t you observe that the least little incident jerks them into speech; if the beer froths over, they froth over with it, and have to say, “Whoa, Emma,” or “Doing me proud, aren’t you?” Now I should say it’s flatly impossible for five of these festive beings to sit round a table in the Commercial Room, and have only four glasses set before them, the fifth man being left out, without making a shout about it. Probably they would make a shout about it. Certainly he would make a shout about it. He wouldn’t wait, like an Englishman of another class, till he could get a drink quietly later. The air would resound with things like, “And what about little me?” or, “Here, George, have I joined the Band of Hope?” or, “Do you see any green in my turban, George?” But the barman heard no such complaints. I take it as certain that the glass of whisky left behind had been nearly emptied by somebody else; somebody we haven’t thought about yet.’

‘But can you think of any such person?’ ask the other.

‘It’s because the manager and the barman won’t hear of any such person, that you dismiss the one really independent piece of evidence; the evidence of that boy outside cleaning the steps. He says that a man, who well may have been a bagman, but who did not, in fact, stick to the other bagmen, went in and came out again almost immediately. The manager and the barman never saw him; or say they never saw him. But he got a glass of whisky from the bar somehow. Let us call him, for the sake of argument, The Quick One. Now you know I don’t often interfere with your business, which I know you do better than I should do it, or should want to do it. I’ve never had anything to do with setting police machinery at work, or running down criminals, or anything like that. But, for the first time in my life, I want to do it now. I want you to find The Quick One; to follow The Quick One to the ends of the earth; to set the whole infernal official machinery at work like a drag - net across the nations, and jolly well recapture The Quick One. Because he is the man we want.’

Greenwood made a despairing gesture. ‘Has he face or form or any visible quality except quickness?’ he inquired.

‘He was wearing a sort of Inverness cape,’ said Father Brown, ‘and he told the boy outside he must reach Edinburgh by next morning. That’s all the boy outside remembers. But I know your organization has got on to people with less clue than that.’

‘You seem very keen on this,’ said the Inspector, a little puzzled.

The priest looked puzzled also, as if at his own thoughts; he sat with knotted brow and then said abruptly: ‘You see, it’s so easy to be misunderstood. All men matter. You matter. I matter. It’s the hardest thing in theology to believe.’

The Inspector stared at him without comprehension; but he proceeded.

‘We matter to God - God only knows why. But that’s the only possible justification of the existence of policemen.’ The policeman did not seem enlightened as to his own cosmic justification. ‘Don’t you see, the law really is right in a way, after all. If all men matter, all murders matter. That which He has so mysteriously created, we must not suffer to be mysteriously destroyed. But - ’

He said the last word sharply, like one taking a new step in decision.

‘But, when once I step off that mystical level of equality, I don’t see that most of your important murders are particularly important. You are always telling me that this case and that is important. As a plain, practical man of the world, I must realize that it is the Prime Minister who has been murdered. As a plain, practical man of the world, I don’t think that the Prime Minister matters at all. As a mere matter of human importance, I should say he hardly exists at all. Do you suppose if he and the other public men were shot dead tomorrow, there wouldn’t be other people to stand up and say that every avenue was being explored, or that the Government had the matter under the gravest consideration? The masters of the modern world don’t matter. Even the real masters don’t matter much. Hardly anybody you ever read about in a newspaper matters at all.’

He stood up, giving the table a small rap: one of his rare gestures; and his voice changed again. ‘But Raggley did matter. He was one of a great line of some half a dozen men who might have saved England. They stand up stark and dark like disregarded sign - posts, down all that smooth descending road which has ended in this swamp of merely commercial collapse. Dean Swift and Dr Johnson and old William Cobbett; they had all without exception the name of being surly or savage, and they were all loved by their friends, and they all deserved to be. Didn’t you see how that old man, with the heart of a lion, stood up and forgave his enemy as only fighters can forgive? He jolly well did do what that temperance lecturer talked about; he set an example to us Christians and was a model of Christianity. And when there is foul and secret murder of a man like that - then I do think it matters, matters so much that even the modern machinery of police will be a thing that any respectable person may make use of … Oh, don’t mention it. And so, for once in a way, I really do want to make use of you.’

And so, for some stretch of those strange days and nights, we might almost say that the little figure of Father Brown drove before him into action all the armies and engines of the police forces of the Crown, as the little figure of Napoleon drove the batteries and the battle - lines of the vast strategy that covered Europe. Police stations and post offices worked all night; traffic was stopped, correspondence was intercepted, inquiries were made in a hundred places, in order to track the flying trail of that ghostly figure, without face or name, with an Inverness cape and an Edinburgh ticket.

Meanwhile, of course, the other lines of investigation were not neglected. The full report of the post - mortem had not yet come in; but everybody seemed certain that it was a case of poisoning. This naturally threw the primary suspicion upon the cherry brandy; and this again naturally threw the primary suspicion on the hotel.

‘Most probably on the manager of the hotel,’ said Greenwood gruffly. ‘He looks a nasty little worm to me. Of course it might be something to do with some servant, like the barman; he seems rather a sulky specimen, and Raggley might have cursed him a bit, having a flaming temper, though he was generally generous enough afterwards. But, after all, as I say, the primary responsibility, and therefore the primary suspicion, rests on the manager.’

‘Oh, I knew the primary suspicion would rest on the manager,’ said Father Brown. ‘That was why I didn’t suspect him. You see, I rather fancied somebody else must have known that the primary suspicion would rest on the manager; or the servants of the hotel. That is why I said it would be easy to kill anybody in the hotel … But you’d better go and have it out with him, I suppose.’

The Inspector went; but came back again after a surprisingly short interview, and found his clerical friend turning over some papers that seemed to be a sort of dossier of the stormy career of John Raggley.

‘This is a rum go,’ said the Inspector. ‘I thought I should spend hours cross - examining that slippery little toad there, for we haven’t legally got a thing against him. And instead of that, he went to pieces all at once, and I really think he’s told me all he knows in sheer funk.’

‘I know,’ said Father Brown. ‘That’s the way he went to pieces when he found Raggley’s corpse apparently poisoned in his hotel. That’s why he lost his head enough to do such a clumsy thing as decorate the corpse with a Turkish knife, to put the blame on the nigger, as he would say. There never is anything the matter with him but funk; he’s the very last man that ever would really stick a knife into a live person. I bet he had to nerve himself to stick it into a dead one. But he’s the very first person to be frightened of being charged with what he didn’t do; and to make a fool of himself, as he did.’

‘I suppose I must see the barman too,’ observed Greenwood.

‘I suppose so,’ answered the other. ‘I don’t believe myself it was any of the hotel people - well, because it was made to look as if it must be the hotel people … But look here, have you seen any of this stuff they’ve got together about Raggley? He had a jolly interesting life; I wonder whether anyone will write his biography.’

‘I took a note of everything likely to affect an affair like this,’ answered the official. ‘He was a widower; but he did once have a row with a man about his wife; a Scotch land - agent then in these parts; and Raggley seems to have been pretty violent. They say he hated Scotchmen; perhaps that’s the reason … Oh, I know what you are smiling grimly about. A Scotchman … Perhaps an Edinburgh man.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Father Brown. ‘It’s quite likely, though, that he did dislike Scotchmen, apart from private reasons. It’s an odd thing, but all that tribe of Tory Radicals, or whatever you call them, who resisted the Whig mercantile movement, all of them did dislike Scotchmen. Cobbett did; Dr Johnson did; Swift described their accent in one of his deadliest passages; even Shakespeare has been accused of the prejudice. But the prejudices of great men generally have something to do with principles. And there was a reason, I fancy. The Scot came from a poor agricultural land, that became a rich industrial land. He was able and active; he thought he was bringing industrial civilization from the north; he simply didn’t know that there had been for centuries a rural civilization in the south. His own grandfather’s land was highly rural but not civilized … Well, well, I suppose we can only wait for more news.’

‘I hardly think you’ll get the latest news out of Shakespeare and Dr Johnson,’ grinned the police officer. ‘What Shakespeare thought of Scotchmen isn’t exactly evidence.’

Father Brown cocked an eyebrow, as if a new thought had surprised him. ‘Why, now I come to think of it,’ he said, ‘there might be better evidence, even out of Shakespeare. He doesn’t often mention Scotchmen. But he was rather fond of making fun of Welshmen.’

The Inspector was searching his friend’s face; for he fancied he recognized an alertness behind its demure expression. ‘By Jove,’ he said. ‘Nobody thought of turning the suspicions that way, anyhow.’

‘Well,’ said Father Brown, with broad - minded calm, ‘you started by talking about fanatics; and how a fanatic could do anything. Well, I suppose we had the honour of entertaining in this bar - parlour yesterday, about the biggest and loudest and most fat - headed fanatic in the modern world. If being a pig - headed idiot with one idea is the way to murder, I put in a claim for my reverend brother Pryce - Jones, the Prohibitionist, in preference to all the fakirs in Asia, and it’s perfectly true, as I told you, that his horrible glass of milk was standing side by side on the counter with the mysterious glass of whisky.’

‘Which you think was mixed up with the murder,’ said Greenwood, staring. ‘Look here, I don’t know whether you’re really serious or not.’

Even as he was looking steadily in his friend’s face, finding something still inscrutable in its expression, the telephone rang stridently behind the bar. Lifting the flap in the counter Inspector Greenwood passed rapidly inside, unhooked the receiver, listened for an instant, and then uttered a shout; not addressed to his interlocutor, but to the universe in general. Then he listened still more attentively and said explosively at intervals, ‘Yes, yes … Come round at once; bring him round if possible … Good piece of work … Congratulate you.’

Then Inspector Greenwood came back into the outer lounge, like a man who has renewed his youth, sat down squarely on his seat, with his hands planted on his knees, stared at his friend, and said:

‘Father Brown, I don’t know how you do it. You seem to have known he was a murderer before anybody else knew he was a man. He was nobody; he was nothing; he was a slight confusion in the evidence; nobody in the hotel saw him; the boy on the steps could hardly swear to him; he was just a fine shade of doubt founded on an extra dirty glass. But we’ve got him, and he’s the man we want.’

Father Brown had risen with the sense of the crisis, mechanically clutching the papers destined to be so valuable to the biographer of Mr Raggley; and stood staring at his friend. Perhaps this gesture jerked his friend’s mind to fresh confirmations.

‘Yes, we’ve got The Quick One. And very quick he was, like quicksilver, in making his get - away; we only just stopped him - off on a fishing trip to Orkney, he said. But he’s the man, all right; he’s the Scotch land - agent who made love to Raggley’s wife; he’s the man who drank Scotch whisky in this bar and then took a train to Edinburgh. And nobody would have known it but for you.’

‘Well, what I meant,’ began Father Brown, in a rather dazed tone; and at that instant there was a rattle and rumble of heavy vehicles outside the hotel; and two or three other and subordinate policemen blocked the bar with their presence. One of them, invited by his superior to sit down, did so in an expansive manner, like one at once happy and fatigued; and he also regarded Father Brown with admiring eyes.

‘Got the murderer. Sir, oh yes,’ he said: ‘I know he’s a murderer, ‘cause he bally nearly murdered me. I’ve captured some tough characters before now; but never one like this - hit me in the stomach like the kick of a horse and nearly got away from five men. Oh, you’ve got a real killer this time. Inspector.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Father Brown, staring.

‘Outside in the van, in handcuffs,’ replied the policeman, ‘and, if you’re wise, you’ll leave him there - for the present.’

Father Brown sank into a chair in a sort of soft collapse; and the papers he had been nervously clutching were shed around him, shooting and sliding about the floor like sheets of breaking snow. Not only his face, but his whole body, conveyed the impression of a punctured balloon.

‘Oh … Oh,’ he repeated, as if any further oath would be inadequate. ‘Oh …I’ve done it again.’

‘If you mean you’ve caught the criminal again,’ began Greenwood. But his friend stopped him with a feeble explosion, like that of expiring soda - water.

‘I mean,’ said Father Brown, ‘that it’s always happening; and really, I don’t know why. I always try to say what I mean. But everybody else means such a lot by what I say.’

‘What in the world is the matter now?’ cried Greenwood, suddenly exasperated.

‘Well, I say things,’ said Father Brown in a weak voice, which could alone convey the weakness of the words. ‘I say things, but everybody seems to know they mean more than they say. Once I saw a broken mirror and said “Something has happened” and they all answered, “Yes, yes, as you truly say, two men wrestled and one ran into the garden,” and so on. I don’t understand it, “Something happened,” and “Two men wrestled,” don’t seem to me at all the same; but I dare say I read old books of logic. Well, it’s like that here. You seem to be all certain this man is a murderer. But I never said he was a murderer. I said he was the man we wanted. He is. I want him very much. I want him frightfully. I want him as the one thing we haven’t got in the whole of this horrible case - a witness!’

They all stared at him, but in a frowning fashion, like men trying to follow a sharp new turn of the argument; and it was he who resumed the argument.

‘From the first minute I entered that big empty bar or saloon, I knew what was the matter with all this business was emptiness; solitude; too many chances for anybody to be alone. In a word, the absence of witnesses. All we knew was that when we came in, the manager and the barman were not in the bar. But when were they in the bar? What chance was there of making any sort of time - table of when anybody was anywhere? The whole thing was blank for want of witnesses. I rather fancy the barman or somebody was in the bar just before we came; and that’s how the Scotchman got his Scotch whisky. He certainly didn’t get it after we came. But we can’t begin to inquire whether anybody in the hotel poisoned poor Raggley’s cherry brandy, till we really know who was in the bar and when. Now I want you to do me another favour, in spite of this stupid muddle, which is probably all my fault. I want you to collect all the people involved in this room - I think they’re all still available, unless the Asiatic has gone back to Asia - and then take the poor Scotchman out of his handcuffs, and bring him in here, and let him tell us who did serve him with whisky, and who was in the bar, and who else was in the room, and all the rest. He’s the only man whose evidence can cover just that period when the crime was done. I don’t see the slightest reason for doubting his word.’

‘But look here,’ said Greenwood. ‘This brings it all back to the hotel authorities; and I thought you agreed that the manager isn’t the murderer. Is it the barman, or what?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the priest blankly. ‘I don’t know for certain even about the manager. I don’t know anything about the barman. I fancy the manager might be a bit of a conspirator, even if he wasn’t a murderer. But I do know there’s one solitary witness on earth who may have seem something; and that’s why I set all your police dogs on his trail to the ends of the earth.’

The mysterious Scotchman, when he finally appeared before the company thus assembled, was certainly a formidable figure; tall, with a hulking stride and a long sardonic hatchet face, with tufts of red hair; and wearing not only an Inverness cape but a Glengarry bonnet, he might well be excused for a somewhat acrid attitude; but anybody could see he was of the sort to resist arrest, even with violence. It was not surprising that he had come to blows with a fighting fellow like Raggley. It was not even surprising that the police had been convinced, by the mere details of capture, that he was a tough and a, typical killer. But he claimed to be a perfectly respectable farmer, in Aberdeenshire, his name being James Grant; and somehow not only Father Brown, but Inspector Greenwood, a shrewd man with a great deal of experience, was pretty soon convinced that the Scot’s ferocity was the fury of innocence rather than guilt.

‘Now what we want from you, Mr Grant,’ said the Inspector gravely, dropping without further parley into tones of courtesy, ‘is simply your evidence on one very important fact. I am greatly grieved at the misunderstanding by which you have suffered, but I am sure you wish to serve the ends of justice. I believe you came into this bar just after it opened, at half - past five, and were served with a glass of whisky. We are not certain what servant of the hotel, whether the barman or the manager or some subordinate, was in the bar at the time. Will you look round the room, and tell me whether the bar - attendant who served you is present here.’

‘Aye, he’s present,’ said Mr Grant, grimly smiling, having swept the group with a shrewd glance. ‘I’d know him anywhere; and ye’ll agree he’s big enough to be seen. Do ye have all your inn - servants as grand as yon?’

The Inspector’s eye remained hard and steady, and his voice colourless and continuous; the face of Father Brown was a blank; but on many other faces there was a cloud; the barman was not particularly big and not at all grand; and the manager was decidedly small.

‘We only want the barman identified,’ said the Inspector calmly. ‘Of course we know him; but we should like you to verify it independently. You mean …?’ And he stopped suddenly.

‘Weel, there he is plain enough,’ said the Scotchman wearily; and made a gesture, and with that gesture the gigantic Jukes, the prince of commercial travellers, rose like a trumpeting elephant; and in a flash had three policemen fastened on him like hounds on a wild beast.

‘Well, all that was simple enough,’ said Father Brown to his friend afterwards. ‘As I told you, the instant I entered the empty bar - room, my first thought was that, if the barman left the bar unguarded like that, there was nothing in the world to stop you or me or anybody else lifting the flap and walking in, and putting poison in any of the bottles standing waiting for customers. Of course, a practical poisoner would probably do it as Jukes did, by substituting a poisoned bottle for the ordinary bottle; that could be done in a flash. It was easy enough for him, as he travelled in bottles, to carry a flask of cherry brandy prepared and of the same pattern. Of course, it requires one condition; but it’s a fairly common condition. It would hardly do to start poisoning the beer or whisky that scores of people drink; it would cause a massacre. But when a man is well known as drinking only one special thing, like cherry brandy, that isn’t very widely drunk, it’s just like poisoning him in his own home. Only it’s a jolly sight safer. For practically the whole suspicion instantly falls on the hotel, or somebody to do with the hotel; and there’s no earthly argument to show that it was done by anyone out of a hundred customers that might come into the bar: even if people realized that a customer could do it. It was about as absolutely anonymous and irresponsible a murder as a man could commit.’

‘And why exactly did the murderer commit it?’ asked his friend.

Father Brown rose and gravely gathered the papers which he had previously scattered in a moment of distraction.

‘May I recall your attention,’ he said smiling, ‘to the materials of the forthcoming Life and Letters of the Late John Raggley? Or, for that matter, his own spoken words? He said in this very bar that he was going to expose a scandal about the management of hotels; and the scandal was the pretty common one of a corrupt agreement between hotel proprietors and a salesman who took and gave secret commissions, so that his business had a monopoly of all the drink sold in the place. It wasn’t even an open slavery like an ordinary tied house; it was a swindle at the expense of everybody the manager was supposed to serve. It was a legal offence. So the ingenious Jukes, taking the first moment when the bar was empty, as it often was, stepped inside and made the exchange of bottles; unfortunately at that very moment a Scotchman in an Inverness cape came in harshly demanding whisky. Jukes saw his only chance was to pretend to be the barman and serve the customer. He was very much relieved that the customer was a Quick One.’

‘I think you’re rather a Quick One yourself,’ observed Greenwood; ‘if you say you smelt something at the start, in the mere air of an empty room. Did you suspect Jukes at all at the start?’

‘Well, he sounded rather rich somehow,’ answered Father Brown vaguely. ‘You know when a man has a rich voice. And I did sort of ask myself why he should have such a disgustingly rich voice, when all those honest fellows were fairly poor. But I think I knew he was a sham when I saw that big shining breast - pin.’

‘You mean because it was sham?’ asked Greenwood doubtfully.

‘Oh, no; because it was genuine,’ said Father Brown.

THREE: The Blast of the Book

Professor Openshaw always lost his temper, with a loud bang, if anybody called him a Spiritualist; or a believer in Spiritualism. This, however, did not exhaust his explosive elements; for he also lost his temper if anybody called him a disbeliever in Spiritualism. It was his pride to have given his whole life to investigating Psychic Phenomena; it was also his pride never to have given a hint of whether he thought they were really psychic or merely phenomenal. He enjoyed nothing so much as to sit in a circle of devout Spiritualists and give devastating descriptions of how he had exposed medium after medium and detected fraud after fraud; for indeed he was a man of much detective talent and insight, when once he had fixed his eye on an object, and he always fixed his eye on a medium, as a highly suspicious object. There was a story of his having spotted the same Spiritualist mountebank under three different disguises: dressed as a woman, a white - bearded old man, and a Brahmin of a rich chocolate brown. These recitals made the true believers rather restless, as indeed they were intended to do; but they could hardly complain, for no Spiritualist denies the existence of fraudulent mediums; only the Professor’s flowing narrative might well seem to indicate that all mediums were fraudulent.

But woe to the simple - minded and innocent Materialist (and Materialists as a race are rather innocent and simple - minded) who, presuming on this narrative tendency, should advance the thesis that ghosts were against the laws of nature, or that such things were only old superstitions; or that it was all tosh, or, alternatively, bunk. Him would the Professor, suddenly reversing all his scientific batteries, sweep from the field with a cannonade of unquestionable cases and unexplained phenomena, of which the wretched rationalist had never heard in his life, giving all the dates and details, stating all the attempted and abandoned natural explanations; stating everything, indeed, except whether he, John Oliver Openshaw, did or did not believe in Spirits, and that neither Spiritualist nor Materialist could ever boast of finding out.

Professor Openshaw, a lean figure with pale leonine hair and hypnotic blue eyes, stood exchanging a few words with Father Brown, who was a friend of his, on the steps outside the hotel where both had been breakfasting that morning and sleeping the night before. The Professor had come back rather late from one of this grand experiments, in general exasperation, and was still tingling with the fight that he always waged alone and against both sides.

‘Oh, I don’t mind you,’ he said laughing. ‘You don’t believe in it even if it’s true. But all these people are perpetually asking me what I’m trying to prove. They don’t seem to understand that I’m a man of science. A man of science isn’t trying to prove anything. He’s trying to find out what will prove itself.’

‘But he hasn’t found out yet,’ said Father Brown.

‘Well, I have some little notions of my own, that are not quite so negative as most people think,’ answered the Professor, after an instant of frowning silence; ‘anyhow, I’ve begun to fancy that if there is something to be found, they’re looking for it along the wrong line. It’s all too theatrical; it’s showing off, all their shiny ectoplasm and trumpets and voices and the rest; all on the model of old melodramas and mouldy historical novels about the Family Ghost. If they’d go to history instead of historical novels, I’m beginning to think they’d really find something. But not Apparitions.’

‘After all,’ said Father Brown, ‘Apparitions are only Appearances. I suppose you’d say the Family Ghost is only keeping up appearances.’

The Professor’s gaze, which had commonly a fine abstracted character, suddenly fixed and focused itself as it did on a dubious medium. It had rather the air of a man screwing a strong magnifying - glass into his eye. Not that he thought the priest was in the least like a dubious medium; but he was startled into attention by his friend’s thought following so closely on his own.

‘Appearances!’ he muttered, ‘crikey, but it’s odd you should say that just now. The more I learn, the more I fancy they lose by merely looking for appearances. Now if they’d look a little into Disappearances - ’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, ‘after all, the real fairy legends weren’t so very much about the appearance of famous fairies; calling up Titania or exhibiting Oberon by moonlight. But there were no end of legends about people disappearing, because they were stolen by the fairies. Are you on the track of Kilmeny or Thomas the Rhymer?’

‘I’m on the track of ordinary modern people you’ve read of in the newspapers,’ answered Openshaw. ‘You may well stare; but that’s my game just now; and I’ve been on it for a long time. Frankly, I think a lot of psychic appearances could be explained away. It’s the disappearances I can’t explain, unless they’re psychic. These people in the newspaper who vanish and are never found - if you knew the details as I do … and now only this morning I got confirmation; an extraordinary letter from an old missionary, quite a respectable old boy. He’s coming to see me at my office this morning. Perhaps you’d lunch with me or something; and I’d tell the results - in confidence.’

‘Thanks; I will - unless,’ said Father Brown modestly, ‘the fairies have stolen me by then.’

With that they parted and Openshaw walked round the corner to a small office he rented in the neighbourhood; chiefly for the publication of a small periodical, of psychical and psychological notes of the driest and most agnostic sort. He had only one clerk, who sat at a desk in the outer office, totting up figures and facts for the purposes of the printed report; and the Professor paused to ask if Mr Pringle had called. The clerk answered mechanically in the negative and went on mechanically adding up figures; and the Professor turned towards the inner room that was his study. ‘Oh, by the way, Berridge,’ he added, without turning round, ‘if Mr Pringle comes, send him straight in to me. You needn’t interrupt your work; I rather want those notes finished tonight if possible. You might leave them on my desk tomorrow, if I am late.’

And he went into his private office, still brooding on the problem which the name of Pringle had raised; or rather, perhaps, had ratified and confirmed in his mind. Even the most perfectly balanced of agnostics is partially human; and it is possible that the missionary’s letter seemed to have greater weight as promising to support his private and still tentative hypothesis. He sat down in his large and comfortable chair, opposite the engraving of Montaigne; and read once more the short letter from the Rev. Luke Pringle, making the appointment for that morning. No man knew better than Professor Openshaw the marks of the letter of the crank; the crowded details; the spidery handwriting; the unnecessary length and repetition. There were none of these things in this case; but a brief and businesslike typewritten statement that the writer had encountered some curious cases of Disappearance, which seemed to fall within the province of the Professor as a student of psychic problems. The Professor was favourably impressed; nor had he any unfavourable impression, in spite of a slight movement of surprise, when he looked up and saw that the Rev. Luke Pringle was already in the room.

‘Your clerk told me to come straight in,’ said Mr Pringle apologetically, but with a broad and rather agreeable grin. The grin was partly masked by masses of reddish - grey beard and whiskers; a perfect jungle of a beard, such as is sometimes grown by white men living in the jungles; but the eyes above the snub nose had nothing about them in the least wild or outlandish. Openshaw had instantly turned on them that concentrated spotlight or burning - glass of sceptical scrutiny which he turned on many men to see if they were mountebanks or maniacs; and, in this case, he had a rather unusual sense of reassurance. The wild beard might have belonged to a crank, but the eyes completely contradicted the beard; they were full of that quite frank and friendly laughter which is never found in the faces of those who are serious frauds or serious lunatics. He would have expected a man with those eyes to be a Philistine, a jolly sceptic, a man who shouted out shallow but hearty contempt of ghosts and spirits; but anyhow, no professional humbug could afford to look as frivolous as that. The man was buttoned up to the throat in a shabby old cape, and only his broad limp hat suggested the cleric; but missionaries from wild places do not always bother to dress like clerics.

‘You probably think all this another hoax. Professor,’ said Mr Pringle, with a sort of abstract enjoyment, ‘and I hope you will forgive my laughing at your very natural air of disapproval. All the same, I’ve got to tell my story to somebody who knows, because it’s true. And, all joking apart, it’s tragic as well as true. Well, to cut it short, I was missionary in Nya - Nya, a station in West Africa, in the thick of the forests, where almost the only other white man was the officer in command of the district, Captain Wales; and he and I grew rather thick. Not that he liked missions; he was, if I may say so, thick in many ways; one of those square - headed, square - shouldered men of action who hardly need to think, let alone believe.

That’s what makes it all the queerer. One day he came back to his tent in the forest, after a short leave, and said he had gone through a jolly rum experience, and didn’t know what to do about it. He was holding a rusty old book in a leather binding, and he put it down on a table beside his revolver and an old Arab sword he kept, probably as a curiosity. He said this book had belonged to a man on the boat he had just come off; and the man swore that nobody must open the book, or look inside it; or else they would be carried off by the devil, or disappear, or something. Wales said this was all nonsense, of course; and they had a quarrel; and the upshot seems to have been that this man, taunted with cowardice or superstition, actually did look into the book; and instantly dropped it; walked to the side of the boat - ’

‘One moment,’ said the Professor, who had made one or two notes. ‘Before you tell me anything else. Did this man tell Wales where he had got the book, or who it originally belonged to?’

‘Yes,’ replied Pringle, now entirely grave. ‘It seems he said he was bringing it back to Dr Hankey, the Oriental traveller now in England, to whom it originally belonged, and who had warned him of its strange properties. Well, Hankey is an able man and a rather crabbed and sneering sort of man; which makes it queerer still. But the point of Wales’s story is much simpler. It is that the man who had looked into the book walked straight over the side of the ship, and was never seen again.’

‘Do you believe it yourself?’ asked Openshaw after a pause.

‘Well, I do,’ replied Pringle. ‘I believe it for two reasons. First, that Wales was an entirely unimaginative man; and he added one touch that only an imaginative man could have added. He said that the man walked straight over the side on a still and calm day; but there was no splash.’

The Professor looked at his notes for some seconds in silence; and then said: ‘And your other reason for believing it?’

‘My other reason,’ answered the Rev. Luke Pringle, ‘is what I saw myself.’

There was another silence; until he continued in the same matter - of - fact way. Whatever he had, he had nothing of the eagerness with which the crank, or even the believer, tried to convince others.

‘I told you that Wales put down the book on the table beside the sword. There was only one entrance to the tent; and it happened that I was standing in it, looking out into the forest, with my back to my companion. He was standing by the table grumbling and growling about the whole business; saying it was tomfoolery in the twentieth century to be frightened of opening a book; asking why the devil he shouldn’t open it himself. Then some instinct stirred in me and I said he had better not do that, it had better be returned to Dr Hankey. “What harm could it do?” he said restlessly. “What harm did it do?” I answered obstinately. “What happened to your friend on the boat?” He didn’t answer, indeed I didn’t know what he could answer; but I pressed my logical advantage in mere vanity. “If it comes to that,” I said, “what is your version of what really happened on the boat?” Still he didn’t answer; and I looked round and saw that he wasn’t there.

‘The tent was empty. The book was lying on the table; open, but on its face, as if he had turned it downwards. But the sword was lying on the ground near the other side of the tent; and the canvas of the tent showed a great slash, as if somebody had hacked his way out with the sword. The gash in the tent gaped at me; but showed only the dark glimmer of the forest outside. And when I went across and looked through the rent I could not be certain whether the tangle of the tall plants and the undergrowth had been bent or broken; at least not farther than a few feet. I have never seen or heard of Captain Wales from that day.

‘I wrapped the book up in brown paper, taking good care not to look at it; and I brought it back to England, intending at first to return it to Dr Hankey. Then I saw some notes in your paper suggesting a hypothesis about such things; and I decided to stop on the way and put the matter before you; as you have a name for being balanced and having an open mind.’

Professor Openshaw laid down his pen and looked steadily at the man on the other side of the table; concentrating in that single stare all his long experience of many entirely different types of humbug, and even some eccentric and extraordinary types of honest men. In the ordinary way, he would have begun with the healthy hypothesis that the story was a pack of lies. On the whole he did incline to assume that it was a pack of lies. And yet he could not fit the man into his story; if it were only that he could not see that sort of liar telling that sort of lie. The man was not trying to look honest on the surface, as most quacks and impostors do; somehow, it seemed all the other way; as if the man was honest, in spite of something else that was merely on the surface. He thought of a good man with one innocent delusion; but again the symptoms were not the same; there was even a sort of virile indifference; as if the man did not care much about his delusion, if it was a delusion.

‘Mr Pringle,’ he said sharply, like a barrister making a witness jump, ‘where is this book of yours now?’

The grin reappeared on the bearded face which had grown grave during the recital. ‘I left it outside,’ said Mr Pringle. ‘I mean in the outer office. It was a risk, perhaps; but the less risk of the two.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded the Professor. ‘Why didn’t you bring it straight in here?’

‘Because,’ answered the missionary, ‘I knew that as soon as you saw it, you’d open it - before you had heard the story. I thought it possible you might think twice about opening it - after you’d heard the story.’

Then after a silence he added: ‘There was nobody out there but your clerk; and he looked a stolid steady - going specimen, immersed in business calculations.’

Openshaw laughed unaffectedly. ‘Oh, Babbage,’ he cried, ‘your magic tomes are safe enough with him, I assure you. His name’s Berridge - but I often call him Babbage; because he’s so exactly like a Calculating Machine. No human being, if you can call him a human being, would be less likely to open other people’s brown paper parcels. Well, we may as well go and bring it in now; though I assure you I will consider seriously the course to be taken with it. Indeed, I tell you frankly,’ and he stared at the man again, ‘that I’m not quite sure whether we ought to open it here and now, or send it to this Dr Hankey.’

The two had passed together out of the inner into the outer office; and even as they did so, Mr Pringle gave a cry and ran forward towards the clerk’s desk. For the clerk’s desk was there; but not the clerk. On the clerk’s desk lay a faded old leather book, torn out of its brown - paper wrappings, and lying closed, but as if it had just been opened. The clerk’s desk stood against the wide window that looked out into the street; and the window was shattered with a huge ragged hole in the glass; as if a human body had been shot through it into the world without. There was no other trace of Mr Berridge.

Both the two men left in the office stood as still as statues; and then it was the Professor who slowly came to life. He looked even more judicial than he had ever looked in his life, as he slowly turned and held out his hand to the missionary.

‘Mr Pringle,’ he said, ‘I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon only for thoughts that I have had; and half - thoughts at that. But nobody could call himself a scientific man and not face a fact like this.’

‘I suppose,’ said Pringle doubtfully, ‘that we ought to make some inquiries. Can you ring up his house and find out if he has gone home?’

‘I don’t know that he’s on the telephone,’ answered Openshaw, rather absently; ‘he lives somewhere up Hampstead way, I think. But I suppose somebody will inquire here, if his friends or family miss him.’

‘Could we furnish a description,’ asked the other, ‘if the police want it?’

‘The police!’ said the Professor, starting from his reverie. ‘A description … Well, he looked awfully like everybody else, I’m afraid, except for goggles. One of those clean - shaven chaps. But the police … look here, what are we to do about this mad business?’

‘I know what I ought to do,’ said the Rev. Mr Pringle firmly, ‘I am going to take this book straight to the only original Dr Hankey, and ask him what the devil it’s all about. He lives not very far from here, and I’ll come straight back and tell you what he says.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said the Professor at last, as he sat down rather wearily; perhaps relieved for the moment to be rid of the responsibility. But long after the brisk and ringing footsteps of the little missionary had died away down the street, the Professor sat in the same posture, staring into vacancy like a man in a trance.

He was still in the same seat and almost in the same attitude, when the same brisk footsteps were heard on the pavement without and the missionary entered, this time, as a glance assured him, with empty hands.

‘Dr Hankey,’ said Pringle gravely, ‘wants to keep the book for an hour and consider the point. Then he asks us both to call, and he will give us his decision. He specially desired. Professor, that you should accompany me on the second visit.’

Openshaw continued to stare in silence; then he said, suddenly: ‘Who the devil is Dr Hankey?’

‘You sound rather as if you meant he was the devil,’ said Pringle smiling, ‘and I fancy some people have thought so. He had quite a reputation in your own line; but he gained it mostly in India, studying local magic and so on, so perhaps he’s not so well known here. He is a yellow skinny little devil with a lame leg, and a doubtful temper; but he seems to have set up in an ordinary respectable practice in these parts, and I don’t know anything definitely wrong about him - unless it’s wrong to be the only person who can possibly know anything about all this crazy affair.’

Professor Openshaw rose heavily and went to the telephone; he rang up Father Brown, changing the luncheon engagement to a dinner, that he might hold himself free for the expedition to the house of the Anglo - Indian doctor; after that he sat down again, lit a cigar and sank once more into his own unfathomable thoughts.

Father Brown went round to the restaurant appointed for dinner, and kicked his heels for some time in a vestibule full of mirrors and palms in pots; he had been informed of Openshaw’s afternoon engagement, and, as the evening closed - in dark and stormy round the glass and the green plants, guessed that it had produced something unexpected and unduly prolonged. He even wondered for a moment whether the Professor would turn up at all; but when the Professor eventually did, it was clear that his own more general guesses had been justified. For it was a very wild

• eyed and even wild - haired Professor who eventually drove back with Mr Pringle from the expedition to the North of London, where suburbs are still fringed with heathy wastes and scraps of common, looking more sombre under the rather thunderstorm sunset. Nevertheless, they had apparently found the house, standing a little apart though within hail of other houses; they had verified the brass - plate duly engraved: ‘J. I. Hankey, MD, MRCS.’ Only they did not find J. I. Hankey, MD, MRCS. They found only what a nightmare whisper had already subconsciously prepared them to find: a commonplace parlour with the accursed volume lying on the table, as if it had just been read; and beyond, a back door burst open and a faint trail of footsteps that ran a little way up so steep a garden - path that it seemed that no lame man could have run up so lightly. But it was a lame man who had run; for in those few steps there was the misshapen unequal mark of some sort of surgical boot; then two marks of that boot alone (as if the creature had hopped) and then nothing. There was nothing further to be learnt from Dr J. I. Hankey, except that he had made his decision. He had read the oracle and received the doom.

When the two came into the entrance under the palms, Pringle put the book down suddenly on a small table, as if it burned his fingers. The priest glanced at it curiously; there was only some rude lettering on the front with a couplet:

They that looked into this book Them the Flying Terror took;

and underneath, as he afterwards discovered, similar warnings in Greek, Latin and French. The other two had turned away with a natural impulsion towards drinks, after their exhaustion and bewilderment; and Openshaw had called to the waiter, who brought cocktails on a tray.

‘You will dine with us, I hope,’ said the Professor to the missionary; but Mr Pringle amiably shook his head.

‘If you’ll forgive me,’ he said, ‘I’m going off to wrestle with this book and this business by myself somewhere. I suppose I couldn’t use your office for an hour or so?’

‘I suppose - I’m afraid it’s locked,’ said Openshaw in some surprise.

‘You forget there’s a hole in the window.’ The Rev. Luke Pringle gave the very broadest of all broad grins and vanished into the darkness without.

‘A rather odd fellow, that, after all,’ said the Professor, frowning.

He was rather surprised to find Father Brown talking to the waiter who had brought the cocktails, apparently about the waiter’s most private affairs; for there was some mention of a baby who was now out of danger. He commented on the fact with some surprise, wondering how the priest came to know the man; but the former only said, ‘Oh, I dine here every two or three months, and I’ve talked to him now and then.’

The Professor, who himself dined there about five times a week, was conscious that he had never thought of talking to the man; but his thoughts were interrupted by a strident ringing and a summons to the telephone. The voice on the telephone said it was Pringle, it was rather a muffled voice, but it might well be muffled in all those bushes of beard and whisker. Its message was enough to establish identity.

‘Professor,’ said the voice, ‘I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to look for myself. I’m speaking from your office and the book is in front of me. If anything happens to me, this is to say good - bye. No - it’s no good trying to stop me. You wouldn’t be in time anyhow. I’m opening the book now. I … ’

Openshaw thought he heard something like a sort of thrilling or shivering yet almost soundless crash; then he shouted the name of Pringle again and again; but he heard no more. He hung up the receiver, and, restored to a superb academic calm, rather like the calm of despair, went back and quietly took his seat at the dinner - table. Then, as coolly as if he were describing the failure of some small silly trick at a seance, he told the priest every detail of this monstrous mystery.

‘Five men have now vanished in this impossible way,’ he said. ‘Every one is extraordinary; and yet the one case I simply can’t get over is my clerk, Berridge. It’s just because he was the quietest creature that he’s the queerest case.’

‘Yes,’ replied Father Brown, ‘it was a queer thing for Berridge to do, anyway. He was awfully conscientious. He was also so jolly careful to keep all the office business separate from any fun of his own. Why, hardly anybody knew he was quite a humorist at home and - ’

‘Berridge!’ cried the Professor. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Did you know him?’

‘Oh no,’ said Father Brown carelessly, ‘only as you say I know the waiter. I’ve often had to wait in your office, till you turned up; and of course I passed the time of day with poor Berridge. He was rather a card. I remember he once said he would like to collect valueless things, as collectors did the silly things they thought valuable. You know the old story about the woman who collected valueless things.’

‘I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,’ said Openshaw. ‘But even if my clerk was eccentric (and I never knew a man I should have thought less so), it wouldn’t explain what happened to him; and it certainly wouldn’t explain the others.’

‘What others?’ asked the priest.

The Professor stared at him and spoke distinctly, as if to a child: ‘My dear Father Brown, Five Men have disappeared.’

‘My dear Professor Openshaw, no men have disappeared.’

Father Brown gazed back at his host with equal steadiness and spoke with equal distinctness. Nevertheless, the Professor required the words repeated, and they were repeated as distinctly. ‘I say that no men have disappeared.’

After a moment’s silence, he added, ‘I suppose the hardest thing is to convince anybody that 0+0+0=0. Men believe the oddest things if they are in a series; that is why Macbeth believed the three words of the three witches; though the first was something he knew himself; and the last something he could only bring about himself. But in your case the middle term is the weakest of all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You saw nobody vanish. You did not see the man vanish from the boat. You did not see the man vanish from the tent. All that rests on the word of Mr Pringle, which I will not discuss just now. But you’ll admit this; you would never have taken his word yourself, unless you had seen it confirmed by your clerk’s disappearance; just as Macbeth would never have believed he would be king, if he had not been confirmed in believing he would be Cawdor.’

‘That may be true,’ said the Professor, nodding slowly. ‘But when it was confirmed, I knew it was the truth. You say I saw nothing myself. But I did; I saw my own clerk disappear. Berridge did disappear.’

‘Berridge did not disappear,’ said Father Brown. ‘On the contrary.’

‘What the devil do you mean by “on the contrary”?’

‘I mean,’ said Father Brown, ‘that he never disappeared. He appeared.’

Openshaw stared across at his friend, but the eyes had already altered in his head, as they did when they concentrated on a new presentation of a problem. The priest went on: ‘He appeared in your study, disguised in a bushy red beard and buttoned up in a clumsy cape, and announced himself as the Rev. Luke Pringle. And you had never noticed your own clerk enough to know him again, when he was in so rough - and - ready a disguise.’

‘But surely,’ began the Professor.

‘Could you describe him for the police?’ asked Father Brown. ‘Not you. You probably knew he was clean - shaven and wore tinted glasses; and merely taking off those glasses was a better disguise than putting on anything else. You had never seen his eyes any more than his soul; jolly laughing eyes. He had planted his absurd book and all the properties; then he calmly smashed the window, put on the beard and cape and walked into your study; knowing that you had never looked at him in your life.’

‘But why should he play me such an insane trick?’ demanded Openshaw.

‘Why, because you had never looked at him in your life,’ said Father Brown; and his hand slightly curled and clinched, as if he might have struck the table, if he had been given to gesture. ‘You called him the Calculating Machine, because that was all you ever used him for. You never found out even what a stranger strolling into your office could find out, in five minutes’ chat: that he was a character; that he was full of antics; that he had all sorts of views on you and your theories and your reputation for “spotting” people. Can’t you understand his itching to prove that you couldn’t spot your own clerk? He has nonsense notions of all sorts. About collecting useless things, for instance. Don’t you know the story of the woman who bought the two most useless things: an old doctor’s brass - plate and a wooden leg? With those your ingenious clerk created the character of the remarkable Dr Hankey; as easily as the visionary Captain Wales. Planting them in his own house - ’

‘Do you mean that place we visited beyond Hampstead was Berridge’s own house?’ asked Openshaw.

‘Did you know his house - or even his address?’ retorted the priest. ‘Look here, don’t think I’m speaking disrespectfully of you or your work. You are a great servant of truth and you know I could never be disrespectful to that. You’ve seen through a lot of liars, when you put your mind to it. But don’t only look at liars. Do, just occasionally, look at honest men - like the waiter.’

‘Where is Berridge now?’ asked the Professor, after a long silence.

‘I haven’t the least doubt,’ said Father Brown, ‘that he is back in your office. In fact, he came back into your office at the exact moment when the Rev. Luke Pringle read the awful volume and faded into the void.’

There was another long silence and then Professor Openshaw laughed; with the laugh of a great man who is great enough to look small. Then he said abruptly:

‘I suppose I do deserve it; for not noticing the nearest helpers I have. But you must admit the accumulation of incidents was rather formidable. Did you never feel just a momentary awe of the awful volume?’

‘Oh, that,’ said Father Brown. ‘I opened it as soon as I saw it lying there. It’s all blank pages. You see, I am not superstitious.’

FOUR: The Green Man

A young man in knickerbockers, with an eager sanguine profile, was playing golf against himself on the links that lay parallel to the sand and sea, which were all growing grey with twilight. He was not carelessly knocking a ball about, but rather practising particular strokes with a sort of microscopic fury; like a neat and tidy whirlwind. He had learned many games quickly, but he had a disposition to learn them a little more quickly than they can be learnt. He was rather prone to be a victim of those remarkable invitations by which a man may learn the Violin in Six Lessons - or acquire a perfect French accent by a Correspondence Course. He lived in the breezy atmosphere of such hopeful advertisement and adventure. He was at present the private secretary of Admiral Sir Michael Craven, who owned the big house behind the park abutting on the links. He was ambitious, and had no intention of continuing indefinitely to be private secretary to anybody. But he was also reasonable; and he knew that the best way of ceasing to be a secretary was to be a good secretary. Consequently he was a very good secretary; dealing with the ever - accumulating arrears of the Admiral’s correspondence with the same swift centripetal concentration with which he addressed the golf - ball. He had to struggle with the correspondence alone and at his own discretion at present; for the Admiral had been with his ship for the last six months, and, though now returning, was not expected for hours, or possibly days.

With an athletic stride, the young man, whose name was Harold Harker, crested the rise of turf that was the rampart of the links and, looking out across the sands to the sea, saw a strange sight. He did not see it very clearly; for the dusk was darkening every minute under stormy clouds; but it seemed to him, by a sort of momentary illusion, like a dream of days long past or a drama played by ghosts, out of another age in history.

The last of the sunset lay in long bars of copper and gold above the last dark strip of sea that seemed rather black than blue. But blacker still against this gleam in the west, there passed in sharp outline, like figures in a shadow pantomime, two men with three - cornered cocked hats and swords; as if they had just landed from one of the wooden ships of Nelson. It was not at all the sort of hallucination that would have come natural to Mr Harker, had he been prone to hallucinations. He was of the type that is at once sanguine and scientific; and would be more likely to fancy the flying - ships of the future than the fighting ships of the past. He therefore very sensibly came to the conclusion that even a futurist can believe his eyes.

His illusion did not last more than a moment. On the second glance, what he saw was unusual but not incredible. The two men who were striding in single file across the sands, one some fifteen yards behind the other, were ordinary modern naval officers; but naval officers wearing that almost extravagant full - dress uniform which naval officers never do wear if they can possibly help it; only on great ceremonial occasions such as the visits of Royalty. In the man walking in front, who seemed more or less unconscious of the man walking behind, Harker recognized at once the high - bridged nose and spike - shaped beard of his own employer the Admiral. The other man following in his tracks he did not know. But he did know something about the circumstances connected with the ceremonial occasion. He knew that when the Admiral’s ship put in at the adjacent port, it was to be formally visited by a Great Personage; which was enough, in that sense, to explain the officers being in full dress. But he did also know the officers; or at any rate the Admiral. And what could have possessed the Admiral to come on shore in that rig - out, when one could swear he would seize five minutes to change into mufti or at least into undress uniform, was more than his secretary could conceive. It seemed somehow to be the very last thing he would do. It was indeed to remain for many weeks one of the chief mysteries of this mysterious business. As it was, the outline of these fantastic court uniforms against the empty scenery, striped with dark sea and sand, had something suggestive of comic opera; and reminded the spectator of Pinafore.

The second figure was much more singular; somewhat singular in appearance, despite his correct lieutenant’s uniform, and still more extraordinary in behaviour. He walked in a strangely irregular and uneasy manner; sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly; as if he could not make up his mind whether to overtake the Admiral or not. The Admiral was rather deaf and certainly heard no footsteps behind him on the yielding sand; but the footsteps behind him, if traced in the detective manner, would have given rise to twenty conjectures from a limp to a dance. The man’s face was swarthy as well as darkened with shadow, and every now and then the eyes in it shifted and shone, as if to accent his agitation. Once he began to run and then abruptly relapsed into a swaggering slowness and carelessness. Then he did something which Mr Harker could never have conceived any normal naval officer in His Britannic Majesty’s Service doing, even in a lunatic asylum. He drew his sword.

It was at this bursting - point of the prodigy that the two passing figures disappeared behind a headland on the shore. The staring secretary had just time to notice the swarthy stranger, with a resumption of carelessness, knock off a head of sea - holly with his glittering blade. He seemed then to have abandoned all idea of catching the other man up. But Mr Harold Harker’s face became very thoughtful indeed; and he stood there ruminating for some time before he gravely took himself inland, towards the road that ran past the gates of the great house and so by a long curve down to the sea.

It was up this curving road from the coast that the Admiral might be expected to come, considering the direction in which he had been walking, and making the natural assumption that he was bound for his own door. The path along the sands, under the links, turned inland just beyond the headland arid solidifying itself into a road, returned towards Craven House. It was down this road, therefore, that the secretary darted, with characteristic impetuosity, to meet his patron returning home. But the parton was apparently not returning home. What was still more peculiar, the secretary was not returning home either; at least until many hours later; a delay quite long enough to arouse alarm and mystification at Craven House.

Behind the pillars and palms of that rather too palatial country house, indeed, there was expectancy gradually changing to uneasiness. Gryce the butler, a big bilious man abnormally silent below as well as above stairs, showed a certain restlessness as he moved about the main front - hall and occasionally looked out of the side windows of the porch, on the white road that swept towards the sea. The Admiral’s sister Marion, who kept house for him, had her brother’s high nose with a more sniffy expression; she was voluble, rather rambling, not without humour, and capable of sudden emphasis as shrill as a cockatoo. The Admiral’s daughter Olive was dark, dreamy, and as a rule abstractedly silent, perhaps melancholy; so that her aunt generally conducted most of the conversation, and that without reluctance. But the girl also had a gift of sudden laughter that was very engaging.

‘I can’t think why they’re not here already,’ said the elder lady. ‘The postman distinctly told me he’d seen the Admiral coming along the beach; along with that dreadful creature Rook. Why in the world they call him Lieutenant Rook - ’

‘Perhaps,’ suggested the melancholy young lady, with a momentary brightness, ‘perhaps they call him Lieutenant because he is a Lieutenant.’

‘I can’t think why the Admiral keeps him,’ snorted her aunt, as if she were talking of a housemaid. She was very proud of her brother and always called him the Admiral; but her notions of a commission in the Senior Service were inexact.

‘Well, Roger Rook is sulky and unsociable and all that,’ replied Olive, ‘but of course that wouldn’t prevent him being a capable sailor.’

‘Sailor!’ cried her aunt with one of her rather startling cockatoo notes, ‘he isn’t my notion of a sailor. The Lass that Loved a Sailor, as they used to sing when I was young … Just think of it! He’s not gay and free and whats-its-name. He doesn’t sing chanties or dance a hornpipe.’

‘Well,’ observed her niece with gravity. ‘The Admiral doesn’t very often dance a hornpipe.’

‘Oh, you know what I mean - he isn’t bright or breezy or anything,’ replied the old lady. ‘Why, that secretary fellow could do better than that.’

Olive’s rather tragic face was transfigured by one of her good and rejuvenating waves of laughter.

‘I’m sure Mr Harker would dance a hornpipe for you,’ she said, ‘and say he had learnt it in half an hour from the book of instructions. He’s always learning things of that sort.’

She stopped laughing suddenly and looked at her aunt’s rather strained face.

‘I can’t think why Mr Harker doesn’t come,’ she added.

‘I don’t care about Mr Harker,’ replied the aunt, and rose and looked out of the window.

The evening light had a long turned from yellow to grey and was now turning almost to white under the widening moonlight, over the large flat landscape by the coast; unbroken by any features save a clump of sea - twisted trees round a pool and beyond, rather gaunt and dark against the horizon, the shabby fishermen’s tavern on the shore that bore the name of the Green Man. And all that road and landscape was empty of any living thing. Nobody had seen the figure in the cocked hat that had been observed, earlier in the evening, walking by the sea; or the other and stranger figure that had been seen trailing after him. Nobody had even seen the secretary who saw them.

It was after midnight when the secretary at last burst in and aroused the household; and his face, white as a ghost, looked all the paler against the background of the stolid face and figure of a big Inspector of Police. Somehow that red, heavy, indifferent face looked, even more than the white and harassed one, like a mask of doom. The news was broken to the two women with such consideration or concealments as were possible. But the news was that the body of Admiral Craven had been eventually fished out of the foul weeds and scum of the pool under the trees; and that he was drowned and dead.

Anybody acquainted with Mr Harold Harker, secretary, will realize that, whatever his agitation, he was by morning in a mood to be tremendously on the spot. He hustled the Inspector, whom he had met the night before on the road down by the Green Man, into another room for private and practical consultation. He questioned the Inspector rather as the Inspector might have questioned a yokel. But Inspector Burns was a stolid character; and was either too stupid or too clever to resent such trifles. It soon began to look as if he were by no means so stupid as he looked; for he disposed of Harker’s eager questions in a manner that was slow but methodical and rational.

‘Well,’ said Harker (his head full of many manuals with titles like ‘Be a Detective in Ten Days’). ‘Well, it’s the old triangle, I suppose. Accident, Suicide or Murder.’

‘I don’t see how it could be accident,’ answered the policeman. ‘It wasn’t even dark yet and the pool’s fifty yards from the straight road that he knew like his own doorstep. He’d no more have got into that pond than he’d go and carefully lie down in a puddle in the street. As for suicide, it’s rather a responsibility to suggest it, and rather improbable too. The Admiral was a pretty spry and successful man and frightfully rich, nearly a millionaire in fact; though of course that doesn’t prove anything. He seemed to be pretty normal and comfortable in his private life too; he’s the last man I should suspect of drowning himself.’

‘So that we come,’ said the secretary, lowering his voice with the thrill, ‘I suppose we come to the third possibility.’

‘We won’t be in too much of a hurry about that,’ said the Inspector to the annoyance of Harker, who was in a hurry about everything. ‘But naturally there are one or two things one would like to know. One would like to know - about his property, for instance. Do you know who’s likely to come in for it? You’re his private secretary; do you know anything about his will?’

‘I’m not so private a secretary as all that,’ answered the young man. ‘His solicitors are Messrs Willis, Hardman and Dyke, over in Suttford High Street; and I believe the will is in their custody.’

‘Well, I’d better get round and see them pretty soon,’ said the Inspector.

‘Let’s get round and see them at once,’ said the impatient secretary.

He took a turn or two restlessly up and down the room and then exploded in a fresh place.

‘What have you done about the body, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘Dr Straker is examining it now at the Police Station. His report ought to be ready in an hour or so.’

‘It can’t be ready too soon,’ said Harker. ‘It would save time if we could meet him at the lawyer’s.’ Then he stopped and his impetuous tone changed abruptly to one of some embarrassment.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I want … we want to consider the young lady, the poor Admiral’s daughter, as much as possible just now. She’s got a notion that may be all nonsense; but I wouldn’t like to disappoint her. There’s some friend of hers she wants to consult, staying in the town at present. Man of the name of Brown; priest or parson of some sort - she’s given me his address. I don’t take much stock in priests or parsons, but

• ’

The Inspector nodded. ‘I don’t take any stock in priests or parsons; but I take a lot of stock in Father Brown,’ he said. ‘I happened to have to do with him in a queer sort of society jewel case. He ought to have been a policeman instead of parson.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said the breathless secretary as he vanished from the room. ‘Let him come to the lawyer’s too.’

Thus it happened that, when they hurried across to the neighbouring town to meet Dr Straker at the solicitor’s office, they found Father Brown already seated there, with his hands folded on his heavy umbrella, chatting pleasantly to the only available member of the firm. Dr Straker also had arrived, but apparently only at that moment, as he was carefully placing his gloves in his top - hat and his top - hat on a side - table. And the mild and beaming expression of the priest’s moonlike face and spectacles, together with the silent chuckles of the jolly old grizzled lawyer, to whom he was talking, were enough to show that the doctor had not yet opened his mouth to bring the news of death.

‘A beautiful morning after all,’ Father Brown was saying. ‘That storm seems to have passed over us. There were some big black clouds, but I notice that not a drop of rain fell.’

‘Not a drop,’ agreed the solicitor toying with a pen; he was the third partner, Mr. Dyke; ‘there’s not a cloud in the sky now. It’s the sort of day for a holiday.’ Then he realized the newcomers and looked up, laying down the pen and rising. ‘Ah, Mr. Harker, how are you? I hear the Admiral is expected home soon.’ Then Harker spoke, and his voice rang hollow in the room.

‘I am sorry to say we are the bearers of bad news. Admiral Craven was drowned before reaching home.’

There was a change in the very air of the still office, though not in the attitudes of the motionless figures; both were staring at the speaker as if a joke had been frozen on their lips. Both repeated the word ‘drowned’ and looked at each other, and then again at their informant. Then there was a small hubbub of questions.

‘When did this happen?’ asked the priest.

‘Where was he found?’ asked the lawyer.

‘He was found,’ said the Inspector, ‘in that pool by the coast, not far from the Green Man, and dragged out all covered with green scum and weeds so as to be almost unrecognizable. But Dr Straker here has - What is the matter. Father Brown? Are you ill?’

‘The Green Man,’ said Father Brown with a shudder. ‘I’m so sorry … I beg your pardon for being upset.’

‘Upset by what?’ asked the staring officer.

‘By his being covered with green scum, I suppose,’ said the priest, with a rather shaky laugh. Then he added rather more firmly, ‘I thought it might have been seaweed.’

By this time everybody was looking at the priest, with a not unnatural suspicion that he was mad; and yet the next crucial surprise was not to come from him. After a dead silence, it was the doctor who spoke.

Dr Straker was a remarkable man, even to look at. He was very tall and angular, formal and professional in his dress; yet retaining a fashion that has hardly been known since Mid - Victorian times. Though comparatively young, he wore his brown beard, very long and spreading over his waistcoat; in contrast with it, his features, which were both harsh and handsome, looked singularly pale. His good looks were also diminished by something in his deep eyes that was not squinting, but like the shadow of a squint. Everybody noticed these things about him, because the moment he spoke, he gave forth an indescribable air of authority. But all he said was:

‘There is one more thing to be said, if you come to details, about Admiral Craven being drowned.’ Then he added reflectively, ‘Admiral Craven was not drowned.’

The Inspector turned with quite a new promptitude and shot a question at him.

‘I have just examined the body,’ said Dr Straker, ‘the cause of death was a stab through the heart with some pointed blade like a stiletto. It was after death, and even some little time after, that the body was hidden in the pool.’

Father Brown was regarding Dr Straker with a very lively eye, such as he seldom turned upon anybody; and when the group in the office began to break up, he managed to attach himself to the medical man for a little further conversation, as they went back down the street. There had not been very much else to detain them except the rather formal question of the will. The impatience of the young secretary had been somewhat tried by the professional etiquette of the old lawyer. But the latter was ultimately induced, rather by the tact of the priest than the authority of the policeman, to refrain from making a mystery where there was no mystery at all. Mr Dyke admitted, with a smile, that the Admiral’s will was a very normal and ordinary document, leaving everything to his only child Olive; and that there really was no particular reason for concealing the fact.

The doctor and the priest walked slowly down the street that struck out of the town in the direction of Craven House. Harker had plunged on ahead of him with all his native eagerness to get somewhere; but the two behind seemed more interested in their discussion than their direction. It was in rather an enigmatic tone that the tall doctor said to the short cleric beside him:

‘Well, Father Brown, what do you think of a thing like this?’

Father Brown looked at. him rather intently for an instant, and then said:

‘Well, I’ve begun to think of one or two things; but my chief difficulty is that I only knew the Admiral slightly; though I’ve seen something of his daughter.’

‘The Admiral,’ said the doctor with a grim immobility of feature, ‘was the sort of man of whom it is said that he had not an enemy in the world.’

‘I suppose you mean,’ answered the priest, ‘that there’s something else that will not be said.’

‘Oh, it’s no affair of mine,’ said Straker hastily but rather harshly. ‘He had his moods, I suppose. He once threatened me with a legal action about an operation; but I think he thought better of it. I can imagine his being rather rough with a subordinate.’

Father Brown’s eyes were fixed on the figure of the secretary striding far ahead; and as he gazed he realized the special cause of his hurry. Some fifty yards farther ahead the Admiral’s daughter was dawdling along the road towards the Admiral’s house. The secretary soon came abreast of her; and for the remainder of the time Father Brown watched the silent drama of two human backs as they diminished into the distance. The secretary was evidently very much excited about something; but if the priest guessed what it was, he kept it to himself. When he came to the corner leading to the doctor’s house, he only said briefly: ‘I don’t know if you have anything more to tell us.’

‘Why should I?’ answered the doctor very abruptly; and striding off, left it uncertain whether he was asking why he should have anything to tell, or why he should tell it.

Father Brown went stumping on alone, in the track of the two young people; but when he came to the entrance and avenues of the Admiral’s park, he was arrested by the action of the girl, who turned suddenly and came straight towards him; her face unusually pale and her eyes bright with some new and as yet nameless emotion.

‘Father Brown,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I must talk to you as soon as possible. You must listen to me, I can’t see any other way out.’

‘Why certainly,’ he replied, as coolly as if a gutter - boy had asked him the time. ‘Where shall we go and talk?’

The girl led him at random to one of the rather tumbledown arbours in the grounds; and they sat down behind a screen of large ragged leaves. She began instantly, as if she must relieve her feelings or faint.

‘Harold Harker,’ she said, ‘has been talking to me about things. Terrible things.’

The priest nodded and the girl went on hastily. ‘About Roger Rook. Do you know about Roger?’

‘I’ve been told,’ he answered, ‘that his fellow - seamen call him The Jolly Roger, because he is never jolly; and looks like the pirate’s skull and crossbones.’

‘He was not always like that,’ said Olive in a low voice. ‘Something very queer must have happened to him. I knew him well when we were children; we used to play over there on the sands. He was harum - scarum and always talking about being a pirate; I dare say he was the sort they say might take to crime through reading shockers; but there was something poetical in his way of being piratical. He really was a Jolly Roger then. I suppose he was the last boy who kept up the old legend of really running away to sea; and at last his family had to agree to his joining the Navy. Well … ’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown patiently.

‘Well,’ she admitted, caught in one of her rare moments of mirth, ‘I suppose poor Roger found it disappointing. Naval officers so seldom carry knives in their teeth or wave bloody cutlasses and black flags. But that doesn’t explain the change in him. He just stiffened; grew dull and dumb, like a dead man walking about. He always avoids me; but that doesn’t matter. I supposed some great grief that’s no business of mine had broken him up. And now - well, if what Harold says is true, the grief is neither more nor less than going mad; or being possessed of a devil.’

‘And what does Harold say?’ asked the priest.

‘It’s so awful I can hardly say it,’ she answered. ‘He swears he saw Roger creeping behind my father that night; hesitating and then drawing his sword … and the doctor says father was stabbed with a steel point … I can’t believe Roger Rook had anything to do with it. His sulks and my father’s temper sometimes led to quarrels; but what are quarrels? I can’t exactly say I’m standing up for an old friend; because he isn’t even friendly. But you can’t help feeling sure of some things, even about an old acquaintance. And yet Harold swears that he - ’

‘Harold seems to swear a great deal,’ said Father Brown.

There was a sudden silence; after which she said in a different tone: ‘Well, he does swear other things too. Harold Harker proposed to me just now.’

‘Am I to congratulate you, or rather him?’ inquired her companion.

‘I told him he must wait. He isn’t good at waiting.’ She was caught again in a ripple of her incongruous sense of the comic: ‘He said I was his ideal and his ambition and so on. He has lived in the States; but somehow I never remember it when he is talking about dollars; only when he is talking about ideals.’

‘And I suppose,’ said Father Brown very softy, ‘that it is because you have to decide about Harold that you want to know the truth about Roger.’

She stiffened and frowned, and then equally abruptly smiled, saying: ‘Oh, you know too much.’

‘I know very little, especially in this affair,’ said the priest gravely. ‘I only know who murdered your father.’ She started up and stood staring down at him stricken white. Father Brown made a wry face as he went on: ‘I made a fool of myself when I first realized it; when they’d just been asking where he was found, and went on talking about green scum and the Green Man.’

Then he also rose; clutching his clumsy umbrella with a new resolution, he addressed the girl with a new gravity.

‘There is something else that I know, which is the key to all these riddles of yours; but I won’t tell you yet. I suppose it’s bad news; but it’s nothing like so bad as the things you have been fancying.’ He buttoned up his coat and turned towards the gate. ‘I’m going to see this Mr Rook of yours. In a shed by the shore, near where Mr Harker saw him walking. I rather think he lives there.’ And he went bustling off in the direction of the beach.

Olive was an imaginative person; perhaps too imaginative to be safely left to brood over such hints as her friend had thrown out; but he was in rather a hurry to find the best relief for her broodings. The mysterious connection between Father Brown’s first shock of enlightenment and the chance language about the pool and the inn, hag - rode her fancy in a hundred forms of ugly symbolism. The Green Man became a ghost trailing loathsome weeds and walking the countryside under the moon; the sign of the Green Man became a human figure hanging as from a gibbet; and the tarn itself became a tavern, a dark subaqueous tavern for the dead sailors. And yet he had taken the most rapid method to overthrow all such nightmares, with a burst of blinding daylight which seemed more mysterious than the night.

For before the sun had set, something had come back into her life that turned her whole world topsy - turvy once more; something she had hardly known that she desired until it was abruptly granted; something that was, like a dream, old and familiar, and yet remained incomprehensible and incredible. For Roger Rook had come striding across the sands, and even when he was a dot in the distance, she knew he was transfigured; and as he came nearer and nearer, she saw that his dark face was alive with laughter and exultation. He came straight toward her, as if they had never parted, and seized her shoulders saying: ‘Now I can look after you, thank God.’

She hardly knew what she answered; but she heard herself questioning rather wildly why he seemed so changed and so happy.

‘Because I am happy,’ he answered. ‘I have heard the bad news.’

All parties concerned, including some who seemed rather unconcerned, found themselves assembled on the garden - path leading to Craven House, to hear the formality, now truly formal, of the lawyer’s reading of the will; and the probable, and more practical sequel of the lawyer’s advice upon the crisis. Besides the grey - haired solicitor himself, armed with the testamentary document, there was the Inspector armed with more direct authority touching the crime, and Lieutenant Rook in undisguised attendance on the lady; some were rather mystified on seeing the tall figure of the doctor, some smiled a little on seeing the dumpy figure of the priest. Mr Harker, that Flying Mercury, had shot down to the lodge - gates to meet them, led them back on to the lawn, and then dashed ahead of them again to prepare their reception. He said he would be back in a jiffy; and anyone observing his piston - rod of energy could well believe it; but, for the moment, they were left rather stranded on the lawn outside the house.

‘Reminds me of somebody making runs at cricket’, said the Lieutenant.

‘That young man,’ said the lawyer, ‘is rather annoyed that the law cannot move quite so quickly as he does. Fortunately Miss Craven understands our professional difficulties and delays. She has kindly assured me that she still has confidence in my slowness.’

‘I wish,’ said the doctor, suddenly, ‘that I had as much confidence in his quickness.’

‘Why, what do you mean?’ asked Rook, knitting his brows; ‘do you mean that Harker is too quick?’

‘Too quick and too slow,’ said Dr Straker, in his rather cryptic fashion. ‘I know one occasion at least when he was not so very quick. Why was he hanging about half the night by the pond and the Green Man, before the Inspector came down and found the body? Why did he meet the Inspector? Why should he expect to meet the Inspector outside the Green Man?’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said Rook. ‘Do you mean that Harker wasn’t telling the truth?’

Dr Straker was silent. The grizzled lawyer laughed with grim good humour. ‘I have nothing more serious to say against the young man,’ he said, ‘than that he made a prompt and praiseworthy attempt to teach me my own business.’

‘For that matter, he made an attempt to teach me mine,’ said the Inspector, who had just joined the group in front. ‘But that doesn’t matter. If Dr Straker means anything by his hints, they do matter. I must ask you to speak plainly, doctor. It may be my duty to question him at once.’

‘Well, here he comes,’ said Rook, as the alert figure of the secretary appeared once more in the doorway.

At this point Father Brown, who had remained silent and inconspicuous at the tail of the procession, astonished everybody very much; perhaps especially those who knew him. He not only walked rapidly to the front, but turned facing the whole group with an arresting and almost threatening expression, like a sergeant bringing soldiers to the halt.

‘Stop!’ he said almost sternly. ‘I apologize to everybody; but it’s absolutely necessary that I should see Mr Harker first. I’ve got to tell him something I know; and I don’t think anybody else knows; something he’s got to hear. It may save a very tragic misunderstanding with somebody later on.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked old Dyke the lawyer.

‘I mean the bad news,’ said Father Brown.

‘Here, I say,’ began the Inspector indignantly; and then suddenly caught the priest’s eye and remembered strange things he had seen in other days. ‘Well, if it were anyone in the world but you I should say of all the infernal cheek - ’

But Father Brown was already out of hearing, and a moment afterwards was plunged in talk with Harker in the porch. They walked to and fro together for a few paces and then disappeared into the dark interior. It was about twelve minutes afterwards that Father Brown came out alone.

To their surprise he showed no dispostion to re - enter the house, now that the whole company were at last about to enter it. He threw himself down on the rather rickety seat in the leafy arbour, and as the procession disappeared through the doorway, lit a pipe and proceeded to stare vacantly at the long ragged leaves about his head and to listen to the birds. There was no man who had a more hearty and enduring appetite for doing nothing.

He was, apparently, in a cloud of smoke and a dream of abstraction, when the front doors were once more flung open and two or three figures came out helter - skelter, running towards him, the daughter of the house and her young admirer Mr Rook being easily winners in the race. Their faces were alight with astonishment; and the face of Inspector Burns, who advanced more heavily behind them, like an elephant shaking the garden, was inflamed with some indignation as well.

‘What can all this mean?’ cried Olive, as she came panting to a halt. ‘He’s gone!’

‘Bolted!’ said the Lieutenant explosively. ‘Harker’s just managed to pack a suitcase and bolted! Gone clean out of the back door and over the garden - wall to God knows where. What did you say to him?’

‘Don’t be silly!’ said Olive, with a more worried expression. ‘Of course you told him you’d found him out, and now he’s gone. I never could have believed he was wicked like that!’

‘Well!’ gasped the Inspector, bursting into their midst. ‘What have you done now? What have you let me down like this for?’

‘Well,’ repeated Father Brown, ‘what have I done?’

‘You have let a murderer escape,’ cried Burns, with a decision that was like a thunderclap in the quiet garden; ‘you have helped a murderer to escape. Like a fool I let you warn him; and now he is miles away.’

‘I have helped a few murderers in my time, it is true,’ said Father Brown; then he added, in careful distinction, ‘not, you will understand, helped them to commit the murder.’

‘But you knew all the time,’ insisted Olive. ‘You guessed from the first that it must be he. That’s what you meant about being upset by the business of finding the body. That’s what the doctor meant by saying my father might be disliked by a subordinate.’

‘That’s what I complain of,’ said the official indignantly. ‘You knew even then that he was the - ’

‘You knew even then,’ insisted Olive, ‘that the murderer was - ’

Father Brown nodded gravely. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I knew even then that the murderer was old Dyke.’

‘Was who?’ repeated the Inspector and stopped amid, a dead silence; punctuated only by the occasional pipe of birds.

‘I mean Mr Dyke, the solicitor,’ explained Father Brown, like one explaining something elementary to an infant class. ‘That gentleman with grey hair who’s supposed to be going to read the will.’

They all stood like statues staring at him, as he carefully filled his pipe again and struck a match. At last Burns rallied his vocal powers to break the strangling silence with an effort resembling violence.

‘But, in the name of heaven, why?’

‘Ah, why?’ said the priest and rose thoughtfully, puffing at his pipe. ‘As to why he did it … Well, I suppose the time has come to tell you, or those of you who don’t know, the fact that is the key of all this business. It’s a great calamity; and it’s a great crime; but it’s not the murder of Admiral Craven.’

He looked Olive full in the face and said very seriously: ‘I tell you the bad news bluntly and in few words; because I think you are brave enough, and perhaps happy enough, to take it well. You have the chance, and I think the power, to be something like a great woman. You are not a great heiress.’

Amid the silence that followed it was he who resumed his explanation.

‘Most of your father’s money, I am sorry to say, has gone. It went by the financial dexterity of the grey - haired gentleman named Dyke, who is (I grieve to say) a swindler. Admiral Craven was murdered to silence him about the way in which he was swindled. The fact that he was ruined and you were disinherited is the single simple clue, not only to the murder, but to all the other mysteries in this business.’ He took a puff or two and then continued.

‘I told Mr Rook you were disinherited and he rushed back to help you. Mr Rook is a rather remarkable person.’

‘Oh, chuck it,’ said Mr Rook with a hostile air.

‘Mr Rook is a monster,’ said Father Brown with scientific calm. ‘He is an anachronism, an atavism, a brute survival of the Stone Age. If there was one barbarous superstition we all supposed to be utterly extinct and dead in these days, it was that notion about honour and independence. But then I get mixed up with so many dead superstitions. Mr Rook is an extinct animal. He is a plesiosaurus. He did not want to live on his wife or have a wife who could call him a fortune - hunter. Therefore he sulked in a grotesque manner and only came to life again when I brought him the good news that you were ruined. He wanted to work for his wife and not be kept by her. Disgusting, isn’t it? Let us turn to the brighter topic of Mr Harker.

‘I told Mr Harker you were disinherited and he rushed away in a sort of panic. Do not be too hard on Mr Harker. He really had better as well as worse enthusiasms; but he had them all mixed up. There is no harm in having ambitions; but he had ambitions and called them ideals. The old sense of honour taught men to suspect success; to say, “This is a benefit; it may be a bribe.” The new nine - times - accursed nonsense about Making Good teaches men to identify being good with making money. That was all that was the matter with him; in every other way he was a thoroughly good fellow, and there are thousands like him. Gazing at the stars and rising in the world were all Uplift. Marrying a good wife and marring a rich wife were all Making Good. But he was not a cynical scoundrel; or he would simply have come back and jilted or cut you as the case might be. He could not face you; while you were there, half of his broken ideal was left.

‘I did not tell the Admiral; but somebody did. Word came to him somehow, during the last grand parade on board, that his friend the family lawyer had betrayed him. He was in such a towering passion that he did what he could never have done in his sense; came straight on shore in his cocked hat and gold lace to catch the criminal; he wired to the police station, and that was why the Inspector was wandering round the Green Man. Lieutenant Rook followed him on shore because he suspected some family trouble and had half a hope he might help and put himself right. Hence his hesitating behaviour. As for his drawing his sword when he dropped behind and thought he was alone, well that’s a matter of imagination. He was a romantic person who had dreamed of swords and run away to sea; and found himself in a service where he wasn’t even allowed to wear a sword except about once in three years. He thought he was quite alone on the sands where he played as a boy. If you don’t understand what he did, I can only say, like Stevenson, “you will never be a pirate.” Also you will never be a poet; and you have never been a boy.’

‘I never have,’ answered Olive gravely, ‘and yet I think I understand.’

‘Almost every man,’ continued the priest musing, ‘will play with anything shaped like a sword or dagger, even if it is a paper knife. That is why I thought it so odd when the lawyer didn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Burns, ‘didn’t what?’

‘Why, didn’t you notice,’ answered Brown, ‘at that first meeting in the office, the lawyer played with a pen and not with a paper - knife; though he had a beautiful bright steel paper - knife in the pattern of a stiletto? The pens were dusty and splashed with ink; but the knife had just been cleaned. But he did not play with it. There are limits to the irony of assassins.’

After a silence the Inspector said, like one waking from a dream: ‘Look here … I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels; I don’t know whether you think you’ve got to the end; but I haven’t got to the beginning. Where do you get all this lawyer stuff from? What started you out on that trail?’

Father Brown laughed curtly and without mirth.

‘The murderer made a slip at the start,’ he said, ‘and I can’t think why nobody else noticed it. When you brought the first news of the death to the solicitor’s office, nobody was supposed to know anything there, except that the Admiral was expected home. When you said he was drowned, I asked when it happened and Mr Dyke asked where the corpse was found.’

He paused a moment to knock out his pipe and resumed reflectively: ‘Now when you are simply told of a seaman, returning from the sea, that he had drowned, it is natural to assume that he had been drowned at sea. At any rate, to allow that he may have been drowned at sea. If he had been washed overboard, or gone down with his ship, or had his body “committed to the deep”, there would be no reason to expect his body to be found at all. The moment that man asked where it was found, I was sure he knew were it was found. Because he had put it there. Nobody but the murderer need have thought of anything so unlikely as a seaman being drowned in a landlocked pool a few hundred yards from the sea. That is why I suddenly felt sick and turned green, I dare say; as green as the Green Man. I never can get used to finding myself suddenly sitting beside a murderer. So I had to turn it off by talking in parables; but the parable meant something, after all. I said that the body was covered with green scum, but it might just as well have been seaweed.’

It is fortunate that tragedy can never kill comedy and that the two can run side by side; and that while the only acting partner of the business of Messrs Willis, Hardman and Dyke blew his brains out when the Inspector entered the house to arrest him. Olive and Roger were calling to each other across the sands at evening, as they did when they were children together.

FIVE: The Pursuit of Mr Blue

Along a seaside parade on a sunny afternoon, a person with the depressing name of Muggleton was moving with suitable gloom. There was a horseshoe of worry in his forehead, and the numerous groups and strings of entertainers stretched along the beach below looked up to him in vain for applause. Pierrots turned up their pale moon faces, like the white bellies of dead fish, without improving his spirits; niggers with faces entirely grey with a sort of grimy soot were equally unsuccessful in filling his fancy with brighter things. He was a sad and disappointed man. His other features, besides the bald brow with its furrow, were retiring and almost sunken; and a certain dingy refinement about them made more incongruous the one aggressive ornament of his face. It was an outstanding and bristling military moustache; and it looked suspiciously like a false moustache. It is possible, indeed, that it was a false moustache. It is possible, on the other hand, that even if it was not false it was forced. He might almost have grown it in a hurry, by a mere act of will; so much was it a part of his job rather than his personality.

For the truth is that Mr Muggleton was a private detective in a small way, and the cloud on his brow was due to a big blunder in his professional career; anyhow it was connected with something darker than the mere possession of such a surname. He might almost, in an obscure sort of way, have been proud of his surname; for he came of poor but decent Nonconformist people who claimed some connection with the founder of the Muggletonians; the only man who had hitherto had the courage to appear with that name in human history.

The more legitimate cause of his annoyance (at least as he himself explained it) was that he had just been present at the bloody murder of a world - famous millionaire, and had failed to prevent it, though he had been engaged at a salary of five pounds a week to do so. Thus we may explain the fact that even the languorous singing of the song entitled, ‘Won’t You Be My Loodah Doodah Day?’ failed to fill him with the joy of life.

For that matter, there were others on the beach, who might have had more sympathy with his murderous theme and Muggletonian tradition. Seaside resorts are the chosen pitches, not only of pierrots appealing to the amorous emotions, but also of preachers who often seem to specialize in a correspondingly sombre and sulphurous style of preaching. There was one aged ranter whom he could hardly help noticing, so piercing were the cries, not to say shrieks of religious prophecy that rang above all the banjos and castanets. This was a long, loose, shambling old man, dressed in something like a fisherman’s jersey; but inappropriately equipped with a pair of those very long and drooping whiskers which have never been seen since the disappearance of certain sportive Mid - Victorian dandies. As it was the custom for all mountebanks on the beach to display something, as if they were selling it, the old man displayed a rather rotten - looking fisherman’s net, which he generally spread out invitingly on the sands, as if it were a carpet for queens; but occasionally whirled wildly round his head with a gesture almost as terrific as that of the Roman Retiarius, ready to impale people on a trident. Indeed, he might really have impaled people, if he had had a trident. His words were always pointed towards punishment; his hearers heard nothing except threats to the body or the soul; he was so far in the same mood as Mr. Muggleton, that he might almost have been a mad hangman addressing a crowd of murderers. The boys called him Old Brimstone; but he had other eccentricities besides the purely theological. One of his eccentricities was to climb up into the nest of iron girders under the pier and trail his net in the water, declaring that he got his living by fishing; though it is doubtful whether anybody had ever seen him catching fish. Worldly trippers, however, would sometimes start at a voice in their ear, threatening judgement as from a thundercloud, but really coming from the perch under the iron roof where the old monomaniac sat glaring, his fantastic whiskers hanging like grey seaweed.

The detective, however, could have put up with Old Brimstone much better than with the other parson he was destined to meet. To explain this second and more momentous meeting, it must be pointed out that Muggleton, after his remarkable experience in the matter of the murder, had very properly put all his cards on the table. He told his story to the police and to the only available representative of Braham Bruce, the dead millionaire; that is, to his very dapper secretary, a Mr Anthony Taylor. The Inspector was more sympathetic than the secretary; but the sequel of his sympathy was the last thing Muggleton would normally have associated with police advice. The Inspector, after some reflection, very much surprised Mr Muggleton by advising him to consult an able amateur whom he knew to be staying in the town. Mr Muggleton had read reports and romances about the Great Criminologist, who sits in his library like an intellectual spider, and throws out theoretical filaments of a web as large as the world. He was prepared to be led to the lonely chateau where the expert wore a purple dressing - gown, to the attic where he lived on opium and acrostics, to the vast laboratory or the lonely tower. To his astonishment he was led to the very edge of the crowded beach by the pier to meet a dumpy little clergyman, with a broad hat and a broad grin, who was at that moment hopping about on the sands with a crowd of poor children; and excitedly waving a very little wooden spade.

When the criminologist clergyman, whose name appeared to be Brown, had at last been detached from the children, though not from the spade, he seemed to Muggleton to grow more and more unsatisfactory. He hung about helplessly among the idiotic side - shows of the seashore, talking about random topics and particularly attaching himself to those rows of automatic machines which are set up in such places; solemnly spending penny after penny in order to play vicarious games of golf, football, cricket, conducted by clockwork figures; and finally contenting himself with the miniature exhibition of a race, in which one metal doll appeared merely to run and jump after the other. And yet all the time he was listening very carefully to the story which the defeated detective poured out to him. Only his way of not letting his right hand know what his left hand was doing, with pennies, got very much on the detective’s nerves.

‘Can’t we go and sit down somewhere,’ said Muggleton impatiently. ‘I’ve got a letter you ought to see, if you’re to know anything at all of this business.’

Father Brown turned away with a sigh from the jumping dolls, and went and sat down with his companion on an iron seat on the shore; his companion had already unfolded the letter and handed it silently to him.

It was an abrupt and queer sort of letter. Father Brown thought. He knew that millionaires did not always specialize in manners, especially in dealing with dependants like detectives; but there seemed to be something more in the letter than mere brusquerie.

DEAR MUGGLETON,

I never thought I should come down to wanting help of this sort; but I’m about through with things. It’s been getting more and more intolerable for the last two years. I guess all you need to know about the story is this. There is a dirty rascal who is a cousin of mine, I’m ashamed to say. He’s been a tout, a tramp, a quack doctor, an actor, and all that; even has the brass to act under our name and call himself Bertrand Bruce. I believe he’s either got some potty job at the theatre here, or is looking for one. But you may take it from me that the job isn’t his real job. His real job is running me down and knocking me out for good, if he can. It’s an old story and no business of anybody’s; there was a time when we started neck and neck and ran a race of ambition - and what they call love as well. Was it my fault that he was a rotter and I was a man who succeeds in things? But the dirty devil swears he’ll succeed yet; shoot me and run off with my - never mind. I suppose he’s a sort of madman, but he’ll jolly soon try to be some sort of murderer. I’ll give you £5 a week if you’ll meet me at the lodge at the end of the pier, just after the pier closes tonight - and take on my job. It’s the only safe place to meet - if anything is safe by this time.

J. BRAHAM BRUCE

‘Dear me,’ said Father Brown mildly. ‘Dear me. A rather hurried letter.’

Muggleton nodded; and after a pause began his own story; in an oddly refined voice contrasting with his clumsy appearance. The priest knew well the hobbies of concealed culture hidden in many dingy lower and middle class men; but even he was startled by the excellent choice of words only a shade too pedantic; the man talked like a book.

‘I arrived at the little round - house at the end of the pier before there was any sign of my distinguished client. I opened the door and went inside, feeling that he might prefer me, as well as himself, to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not that it mattered very much; for the pier was too long for anybody to have seen us from the beach or the parade, and, on glancing at my watch, I saw by the time that the pier entrance must have already closed. It was flattering, after a fashion, that he should thus ensure that we should be alone together at the rendezvous, as showing that he did really rely on my assistance or protection. Anyhow, it was his idea that we should meet on the pier after closing time, so I fell in with it readily enough. There were two chairs inside the little round pavilion, or whatever you call it; so I simply took one of them and waited. I did not have to wait long. He was famous for his punctuality, and sure enough, as I looked up at the one little round window opposite me I saw him pass slowly, as if making a preliminary circuit of the place.

‘I had only seen portraits of him, and that was a long time ago; and naturally he was rather older than the portraits, but there was no mistaking the likeness. The profile that passed the window was of the sort called aquiline, after the beak of the eagle; but he rather suggested a grey and venerable eagle; an eagle in repose; an eagle that has long folded its wings. There was no mistaking, however, that look of authority, or silent pride in the habit of command, that has always marked men who, like him, have organized great systems and been obeyed. He was quietly dressed, what I could see of him; especially as compared with the crowd of seaside trippers which had filled so much of my day; but I fancied his overcoat was of that extra elegant sort that is cut to follow the line of the figure, and it had a strip of astrakhan lining showing on the lapels. All this, of course, I took in at a glance, for I had already got to my feet and gone to the door. I put out my hand and received the first shock of that terrible evening. The door was locked. Somebody had locked me in.

‘For a moment I stood stunned, and still staring at the round window, from which, of course, the moving profile had already passed; and then I suddenly saw the explanation. Another profile, pointed like that of a pursuing hound, flashed into the circle of vision, as into a round mirror. The moment I saw it, I knew who it was. It was the Avenger; the murderer or would - be murderer, who had trailed the old millionaire for so long across land and sea, and had now tracked him to this blind - alley of an iron pier that hung between sea and land. And I knew, of course, that it was the murderer who had locked the door.

‘The man I saw first had been tall, but his pursuer was even taller; an effect that was only lessened by his carrying his shoulders hunched very high and his neck and head thrust forward like a true beast of the chase. The effect of the combination gave him rather the look of a gigantic hunchback. But something of the blood relationship that connected this ruffian with his famous kinsman showed in the two profiles as they passed across the circle of glass. The pursuer also had a nose rather like the beak of a bird; though his general air of ragged degradation suggested the vulture rather than the eagle. He was unshaven to the point of being bearded, and the humped look of his shoulders was increased by the coils of a coarse woollen scarf. All these are trivialities, and can give no impression of the ugly energy of that outline, or the sense of avenging doom in that stooping and striding figure. Have you ever seen William Blake’s design, sometimes called with some levity, “The Ghost of a Flea,” but also called, with somewhat greater lucidity, “A Vision of Blood Guilt,” or something of that kind? That is just such a nightmare of a stealthy giant, with high shoulders, carrying a knife and bowl. This man carried neither, but as he passed the window the second time, I saw with my own eyes that he loosened a revolver from the folds of the scarf and held it gripped and poised in his hand. The eyes in his head shifted and shone in the moonlight, and that in a very creepy way; they shot forward and back with lightning leaps; almost as if he could shoot them out like luminous horns, as do certain reptiles.

‘Three times the pursued and the pursuer passed in succession outside the window, treading their narrow circle, before I fully awoke to the need of some action, however desperate. I shook the door with rattling violence; when next I saw the face of the unconscious victim I beat furiously on the window; then I tried to break the window. But it was a double window of exceptionally thick glass, and so deep was the embrasure that I doubted if I could properly reach the outer window at all. Anyhow, my dignified client took no notice of my noise or signals; and the revolving shadow - pantomime of those two masks of doom continued to turn round and round me, till I felt almost dizzy as well as sick. Then they suddenly ceased to reappear. I waited; and I knew that they would not come again. I knew that the crisis had come.

‘I need not tell you more. You can almost imagine the rest, even as I sat there helpless, trying to imagine it; or trying not to imagine it. It is enough to say that in that awful silence, in which all sounds of footsteps had died away, there were only two other noises besides the rumbling undertones of the sea. The first was the loud noise of a shot and the second the duller noise of a splash.

‘My client had been murdered within a few yards of me, and I could make no sign. I will not trouble you with what I felt about that. But even if I could recover from the murder, I am still confronted with the mystery.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown very gently, ‘which mystery?’

‘The mystery of how the murderer got away,’ answered the other. ‘The instant people were admitted to the pier next morning, I was released from my prison and went racing back to the entrance gates, to inquire who had left the pier since they were opened. Without bothering you with details, I may explain that they were, by a rather unusual arrangement, real full - size iron doors that would keep anybody out (or in) until they were opened. The officials there had seen nobody in the least resembling the assassin returning that way. And he was a rather unmistakable person. Even if he had disguised himself somehow, he could hardly have disguised his extraordinary height or got rid of the family nose. It is extraordinarily unlikely that he tried to swim ashore, for the sea was very rough; and there are certainly no traces of any landing. And, somehow, having seen the face of that fiend even once, let alone about six times, something gives me an overwhelming conviction that he did not simply drown himself in the hour of triumph.’

‘I quite understand what you mean by that,’ replied Father Brown. ‘Besides, it would be very inconsistent with the tone of his original threatening letter, in which he promised himself all sorts of benefits after the crime … there’s another point it might be well to verify. What about the structure of the pier underneath? Piers are very often made with a whole network of iron supports, which a man might climb through as a monkey climbs through a forest.’

‘Yes, I thought of that,’ replied the private investigator; ‘but unfortunately this pier is oddly constructed in more ways than one. It’s quite unusually long, and there are iron columns with all that tangle of iron girders; only they’re very far apart and I can’t see any way a man could climb from one to the other.’

‘I only mentioned it,’ said Father Brown thoughtfully, ‘because that queer fish with the long whiskers, the old man who preaches on the sand, often climbs up on to the nearest girder. I believe he sits there fishing when the tide comes up. And he’s a very queer fish to go fishing.’

‘Why, what do you mean?’

‘Well,’ said Father Brown very slowly, twiddling with a button and gazing abstractedly out to the great green waters glittering in the last evening light after the sunset. ‘Well … I tried to talk to him in a friendly sort of way -friendly and not too funny, if you understand, about his combining the ancient trades of fishing and preaching; I think I made the obvious reference; the text that refers to fishing for living souls. And he said quite queerly and harshly, as he jumped back on to his iron perch, “Well, at least I fish for dead bodies.”’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed the detective, staring at him.

‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘It seemed to me an odd remark to make in a chatty way, to a stranger playing with children on the sands.’

After another staring silence his companion eventually ejaculated: ‘You don’t mean you think he had anything to do with the death.’

‘I think,’ answered Father Brown, ‘that he might throw some light on it.’

‘Well, it’s beyond me now,’ said the detective. ‘It’s beyond me to believe that anybody can throw any light on it. It’s like a welter of wild waters in the pitch dark; the sort of waters that he … that he fell into. It’s simply stark staring unreason; a big man vanishing like a bubble; nobody could possibly … Look here!’ He stopped suddenly, staring at the priest, who had not moved, but was still twiddling with the button and staring at the breakers. ‘What do you mean? What are you looking like that for? You don’t mean to say that you … that you can make any sense of it?’

‘It would be much better if it remained nonsense,’ said Father Brown in a low voice. ‘Well, if you ask me right out - yes, I think I can make some sense of it.’

There was a long silence, and then the inquiry agent said with a rather singular abruptness: ‘Oh, here comes the old man’s secretary from the hotel. I must be off. I think I’ll go and talk to that mad fisherman of yours.’

‘Post hoc propter hoc?’ asked the priest with a smile.

‘Well,’ said the other, with jerky candour, ‘the secretary don’t like me and I don’t think I like him. He’s been poking around with a lot of questions that didn’t seem to me to get us any further, except towards a quarrel. Perhaps he’s jealous because the old man called in somebody else, and wasn’t content with his elegant secretary’s advice. See you later.’

And he turned away, ploughing through the sand to the place where the eccentric preacher had already mounted his marine nest; and looked in the green gloaming rather like some huge polyp or stinging jelly - fish trailing his poisonous filaments in the phosphorescent sea.

Meanwhile the priest was serenely watching the serene approach of the secretary; conspicuous even from afar, in that popular crowd, by the clerical neatness and sobriety of his top - hat and tail - coat. Without feeling disposed to take part in any feuds between the secretary and the inquiry agent. Father Brown had a faint feeling of irrational sympathy with the prejudices of the latter. Mr Anthony Taylor, the secretary, was an extremely presentable young man, in countenance, as well as costume; and the countenance was firm and intellectual as well as merely good - looking. He was pale, with dark hair coming down on the sides of his head, as if pointing towards possible whiskers; he kept his lips compressed more tightly than most people. The only thing that Father Brown’s fancy could tell itself in justification sounded queerer than it really looked. He had a notion that the man talked with his nostrils. Anyhow, the strong compression of his mouth brought out something abnormally sensitive and flexible in these movements at the sides of his nose, so that he seemed to be communicating and conducting life by snuffling and smelling, with his head up, as does a dog. It somehow fitted in with the other features that, when he did speak, it was with a sudden rattling rapidity like a gatling - gun, which sounded almost ugly from so smooth and polished a figure.

For once he opened the conversation, by saying: ‘No bodies washed ashore, I imagine.’

‘None have been announced, certainly,’ said Father Brown.

‘No gigantic body of the murderer with the woollen scarf,’ said Mr Taylor.

‘No,’ said Father Brown.

Mr Taylor’s mouth did not move any more for the moment; but his nostrils spoke for him with such quick and quivering scorn, that they might almost have been called talkative.

When he did speak again, after some polite commonplaces from the priest, it was to say curtly: ‘Here comes the Inspector; I suppose they’ve been scouring England for the scarf.’

Inspector Grinstead, a brown - faced man with a grey pointed beard, addressed Father Brown rather more respectfully than the secretary had done.

‘I thought you would like to know, sir,’ he said, ‘that there is absolutely no trace of the man described as having escaped from the pier.’

‘Or rather not described as having escaped from the pier,’ said Taylor. ‘The pier officials, the only people who could have described him, have never seen anybody to describe.’

‘Well,’ said the Inspector, ‘we’ve telephoned all the stations and watched all the roads, and it will be almost impossible for him to escape from England. It really seems to me as if he couldn’t have got out that way. He doesn’t seem to be anywhere.’

‘He never was anywhere,’ said the secretary, with an abrupt grating voice, that sounded like a gun going off on that lonely shore.

The Inspector looked blank; but a light dawned gradually on the face of the priest, who said at last with almost ostentatious unconcern:

‘Do you mean that the man was a myth? Or possibly a lie?’

‘Ah,’ said the secretary, inhaling through his haughty nostrils, ‘you’ve thought of that at last.’

‘I thought of that at first,’ said Father Brown. ‘It’s the first thing anybody would think of, isn’t it, hearing an unsupported story from a stranger about a strange murderer on a lonely pier. In plain words, you mean that little Muggleton never heard anybody murdering the millionaire. Possibly you mean that little Muggleton murdered him himself.’

‘Well,’ said the secretary, ‘Muggleton looks a dingy down - and - out sort of cove to me. There’s no story but his about what happened on the pier, and his story consists of a giant who vanished; quite a fairy - tale. It isn’t a very creditable tale, even as he tells it. By his own account, he bungled his case and let his patron be killed a few yards away. He’s a pretty rotten fool and failure, on his own confession.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown. ‘I’m rather fond of people who are fools and failures on their own confession.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ snapped the other.

‘Perhaps,’ said Father Brown, wistfully, ‘it’s because so many people are fools and failures without any confession.’

Then, after a pause, he went on: ‘But even if he is a fool and a failure, that doesn’t prove he is a liar and a murderer. And you’ve forgotten that there is one piece of external evidence that does really support history. I mean the letter from the millionaire, telling the whole tale of his cousin and his vendetta. Unless you can prove that the document itself is actually a forgery, you have to admit there was some probability of Bruce being pursued by somebody who had a real motive. Or rather, I should say, the one actually admitted and recorded motive.’

‘I’m not quite sure that I understand you,’ said the Inspector, ‘about the motive.’

‘My dear fellow,’ said Father Brown, for the first time stung by impatience into familiarity, ‘everybody’s got a motive in a way. Considering the way that Bruce made his money, considering the way that most millionaires make their money, almost anybody in the world might have done such a perfectly natural thing as throw him into the sea. In many, one might almost fancy, it would be almost automatic. To almost all it must have occurred at some time or other. Mr Taylor might have done it.’

‘What’s that?’ snapped Mr Taylor, and his nostrils swelled visibly.

‘I might have done it,’ went on Father Brown, ‘nisi me constringeret ecclesiae auctoritas. Anybody, but for the one true morality, might be tempted to accept so obvious, so simple a social solution. I might have done it; you might have done it; the Mayor or the muffin - man might have done it. The only person on this earth I can think of, who probably would not have done it, is the private inquiry agent whom Bruce had just engaged at five pounds a week, and who hadn’t yet had any of his money.’

The secretary was silent for a moment; then he snorted and said: ‘If that’s the offer in the letter, we’d certainly better see whether it’s a forgery. For really, we don’t know that the whole tale isn’t as false as a forgery. The fellow admits himself that the disappearance of his hunch

• backed giant is utterly incredible and inexplicable.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown; ‘that’s what I like about Muggleton. He admits things.’

‘All the same,’ insisted Taylor, his nostrils vibrant with excitement. ‘All the same, the long and the short of it is that he can’t prove that his tall man in the scarf ever existed or does exist; and every single fact found by the police and the witnesses proves that he does not exist. No, Father Brown. There is only one way in which you can justify this little scallywag you seem to be so fond of. And that is by producing his Imaginary Man. And that is exactly what you can’t do.’

‘By the way,’ said the priest, absent - mindedly, ‘I suppose you come from the hotel where Bruce has rooms, Mr Taylor?’

Taylor looked a little taken aback, and seemed almost to stammer. ‘Well, he always did have those rooms; and they’re practically his. I haven’t actually seen him there this time.’

‘I suppose you motored down with him,’ observed Brown; ‘or did you both come by train?’

‘I came by train and brought the luggage,’ said the secretary impatiently. ‘Something kept him, I suppose. I haven’t actually seen him since he left Yorkshire on his own a week or two ago.’

‘So it seems,’ said the priest very softly, ‘that if Muggleton wasn’t the last to see Bruce by the wild sea - waves, you were the last to see him, on the equally wild Yorkshire moors.’

Taylor had turned quite white, but he forced his grating voice to composure: ‘I never said Muggleton didn’t see Bruce on the pier.’

‘No; and why didn’t you?’ asked Father Brown. ‘If he made up one man on the pier, why shouldn’t he make up two men on the pier? Of course we do know that Bruce did exist; but we don’t seem to know what has happened to him for several weeks. Perhaps he was left behind in Yorkshire.’

The rather strident voice of the secretary rose almost to a scream. All his veneer of society suavity seemed to have vanished.

‘You’re simply shuffling! You’re simply shirking! You’re trying to drag in mad insinuations about me, simply because you can’t answer my question.’

‘Let me see,’ said Father Brown reminiscently. ‘What was your question?’

‘You know well enough what it was; and you know you’re damned well stumped by it. Where is the man with the scarf? Who has seen him? Whoever heard of him or spoke of him, except that little liar of yours? If you want to convince us, you must produce him. If he ever existed, he may be hiding in the Hebrides or off to Callao. But you’ve got to produce him, though I know he doesn’t exist. Well then! Where is he?’

‘I rather think he is over there,’ said Father Brown, peering and blinking towards the nearer waves that washed round the iron pillars of the pier; where the two figures of the agent and the old fisher and preacher were still dark against the green glow of the water. ‘I mean in that sort of net thing that’s tossing about in the sea.’

With whatever bewilderment, Inspector Grinstead took the upper hand again with a flash, and strode down the beach.

‘Do you mean to say,’ he cried, ‘that the murderer’s body is in the old boy’s net?’

Father Brown nodded as he followed down the shingly slope; and, even as they moved, little Muggleton the agent turned and began to climb the same shore, his mere dark outline a pantomime of amazement and discovery.

‘It’s true, for all we said,’ he gasped. ‘The murderer did try to swim ashore and was drowned, of course, in that weather. Or else he did really commit suicide. Anyhow, he drifted dead into Old Brimstone’s fishing - net, and that’s what the old maniac meant when he said he fished for dead men.’

The Inspector ran down the shore with an agility that outstripped them all, and was heard shouting out orders. In a few moments the fishermen and a few bystanders, assisted by the policemen, had hauled the net into shore, and rolled it with its burden on to the wet sands that still reflected the sunset. The secretary looked at what lay on the sands and the words died on his lips. For what lay on the sands was indeed the body of a gigantic man in rags, with the huge shoulders somewhat humped and bony eagle face; and a great red ragged woollen scarf or comforter, sprawled along the sunset sands like a great stain of blood. But Taylor was staring not at the gory scarf or the fabulous stature, but at the face; and his own face was a conflict of incredulity and suspicion.

The Inspector instantly turned to Muggleton with a new air of civility.

‘This certainly confirms your story,’ he said. And until he heard the tone of those words, Muggleton had never guessed how almost universally his story had been disbelieved. Nobody had believed him. Nobody but Father Brown.

Therefore, seeing Father Brown edging away from the group, he made a movement to depart in his company; but even then he was brought up rather short by the discovery that the priest was once more being drawn away by the deadly attractions of the funny little automatic machines. He even saw the reverend gentleman fumbling for a penny. He stopped, however, with the penny poised in his finger and thumb, as the secretary spoke for the last time in his loud discordant voice.

‘And I suppose we may add,’ he said, ‘that the monstrous and imbecile charges against me are also at an end.’

‘My dear sir,’ said the priest, ‘I never made any charges against you. I’m not such a fool as to suppose you were likely to murder your master in Yorkshire and then come down here to fool about with his luggage. All I said was that I could make out a better case against you than you were making out so vigorously against poor Mr Muggleton. All the same, if you really want to learn the truth about his business (and I assure you the truth isn’t generally grasped yet), I can give you a hint even from your own affairs. It is rather a rum and significant thing that Mr Bruce the millionaire had been unknown to all his usual haunts and habits for weeks before he was really killed. As you seem to be a promising amateur detective, I advise you to work on that line.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Taylor sharply.

But he got no answer out of Father Brown, who was once more completely concentrated on jiggling the little handle of the machine, that made one doll jump out and then another doll jump after it.

‘Father Brown,’ said Muggleton, his old annoyance faintly reviving: ‘Will you tell me why you like that fool thing so much?’

‘For one reason,’ replied the priest, peering closely into the glass puppet - show. ‘Because it contains the secret of this tragedy.’

Then he suddenly straightened himself; and looked quite seriously at his companion.

‘I knew all along,’ he said, ‘that you were telling the truth and the opposite of the truth.’

Muggleton could only stare at a return of all the riddles.

‘It’s quite simple,’ added the priest, lowering his voice. ‘That corpse with the scarlet scarf over there is the corpse of Braham Bruce the millionaire. There won’t be any other.’

‘But the two men - ’ began Muggleton, and his mouth fell open.

‘Your description of the two men was quite admirably vivid,’ said Father Brown. ‘I assure you I’m not at all likely to forget it. If I may say so, you have a literary talent; perhaps journalism would give you more scope than detection. I believe I remember practically each point about each person. Only, you see, queerly enough, each point affected you in one way and me in exactly the opposite way. Let’s begin with the first you mentioned. You said that the first man you saw had an indescribable air of authority and dignity. And you said to yourself, “That’s the Trust Magnate, the great merchant prince, the ruler of markets.” But when I heard about the air of dignity and authority, I said to myself, “That’s the actor; everything about this is the actor, “ You don’t get that look by being President of the Chain Store Amalgamation Company. You get that look by being Hamlet’s Father’s Ghost, or Julius Caesar, or King Lear, and you never altogether lose it. You couldn’t see enough of his clothes to tell whether they were really seedy, but you saw a strip of fur and a sort of faintly fashionable cut; and I said to myself again, “The actor.”

Next, before we go into details about the other man, notice one thing about him evidently absent from the first man. You said the second man was not only ragged but unshaven to the point of being bearded. Now we have all seen shabby actors, dirty actors, drunken actors, utterly disreputable actors. But such a thing as a scrub - bearded actor, in a job or even looking round for a job, has scarcely been seen in this world. On the other hand, shaving is often almost the first thing to go, with a gentleman or a wealthy eccentric who is really letting himself go to pieces. Now we have every reason to believe that your friend the millionaire was letting himself go to pieces. His letter was the letter of a man who had already gone to pieces. But it wasn’t only negligence that made him look poor and shabby. Don’t you understand that the man was practically in hiding? That was why he didn’t go to his hotel; and his own secretary hadn’t seen him for weeks. He was a millionaire; but his whole object was to be a completely disguised millionaire. Have you ever read “The Woman in White”? Don’t you remember that the fashionable and luxurious Count Fosco, fleeing for his life before a secret society, was found stabbed in the blue blouse of a common French workman? Then let us go back for a moment to the demeanour of these men. You saw the first man calm and collected and you said to yourself, “That’s the innocent victim”; though the innocent victim’s own letter wasn’t at all calm and collected. I heard he was calm and collected; and I said to myself, “That’s the murderer.” Why should he be anything else but calm and collected? He knew what he was going to do. He had made up his mind to do it for a long time; if he had ever had any hesitation or remorse he had hardened himself against them before he came on the scene - in his case, we might say, on the stage. He wasn’t likely to have any particular stage - fright. He didn’t pull out his pistol and wave it about; why should he? He kept it in his pocket till he wanted it; very likely he fired from his pocket. The other man fidgeted with his pistol because he was nervous as a cat, and very probably had never had a pistol before. He did it for the same reason that he rolled his eyes; and I remember that, even in your own unconscious evidence, it is particularly stated that he rolled them backwards. In fact, he was looking behind him. In fact, he was not the pursuer but the pursued. But because you happened to see the first man first, you couldn’t help thinking of the other man as coming up behind him. In mere mathematics and mechanics, each of them was running after the other - just like the others.’

‘What others?’ inquired the dazed detective.

‘Why, these,’ cried Father Brown, striking the automatic machine with the little wooden spade, which had incongruously remained in his hand throughout these murderous mysteries. ‘These little clockwork dolls that chase each other round and round for ever. Let us call them Mr Blue and Mr Red, after the colour of their coats. I happened to start off with Mr Blue, and so the children said that Mr Red was running after him; but it would have looked exactly the contrary if I had started with Mr Red.’

‘Yes, I begin to see,’ said Muggleton; ‘and I suppose all the rest fits in. The family likeness, of course, cuts both ways, and they never saw the murderer leaving the pier - ’

‘They never looked for the murderer leaving the pier,’ said the other. ‘Nobody told them to look for a quiet clean - shaven gentleman in an astrakhan coat. All the mystery of his vanishing revolved on your description of a hulking fellow in a red neckcloth. But the simple truth was that the actor in the astrakhan coat murdered the millionaire with the red rag, and there is the poor fellow’s body. It’s just like the red and blue dolls; only, because you saw one first, you guessed wrong about which was red with vengeance and which was blue with funk.’

At this point two or three children began to straggle across the sands, and the priest waved them to him with the wooden spade, theatrically tapping the automatic machine. Muggleton guessed that it was mainly to prevent their straying towards the horrible heap on the shore.

‘One more penny left in the world,’ said Father Brown, ‘and then we must go home to tea. Do you know, Doris, I rather like those revolving games, that just go round and round like the Mulberry - Bush. After all, God made all the suns and stars to play Mulberry - Bush. But those other games, where one must catch up with another, where runners are rivals and run neck and neck and outstrip each other; well - much nastier things seem to happen. I like to think of Mr Red and Mr Blue always jumping with undiminished spirits; all free and equal; and never hurting each other. “Fond lover, never, never, wilt thou kiss - or kill.” Happy, happy Mr Red!

He cannot change; though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever will thou jump; and he be Blue.

Reciting this remarkable quotation from Keats, with some emotion. Father Brown tucked the little spade under one arm, and giving a hand to two of the children, stumped solemnly up the beach to tea.

SIX: The Crime of the Communist

Three men came out from under the lowbrowed Tudor arch in the mellow facade of Mandeville College, into the strong evening sunlight of a summer day which seemed as if it would never end; and in that sunlight they saw something that blasted like lightning; well - fitted to be the shock of their lives.

Even before they had realized anything in the way of a catastrophe, they were conscious of a contrast. They themselves, in a curious quiet way, were quite harmonious with their surroundings. Though the Tudor arches that ran like a cloister round the College gardens had been built four hundred years ago, at that moment when the Gothic fell from heaven and bowed, or almost crouched, over the cosier chambers of Humanism and the Revival of Learning - though they themselves were in modern clothes (that is in clothes whose ugliness would have amazed any of the four centuries) yet something in the spirit of the place made them all at one. The gardens had been tended so carefully as to achieve the final triumph of looking careless; the very flowers seemed beautiful by accident, like elegant weeds; and the modern costumes had at least any picturesqueness that can be produced by being untidy. The first of the three, a tall, bald, bearded maypole of a man, was a familiar figure in the Quad in cap and gown; the gown slipped off one of his sloping shoulders. The second was very square - shouldered, short and compact, with a rather jolly grin, commonly clad in a jacket, with his gown over his arm. The third was even shorter and much shabbier, in black clerical clothes. But they all seemed suitable to Mandeville College; and the indescribable atmosphere of the two ancient and unique Universities of England. They fitted into it and they faded into it; which is there regarded as most fitting.

The two men seated on garden chairs by a little table were a sort of brilliant blot on this grey - green landscape. They were clad mostly in black and yet they glittered from head to heel, from their burnished top

• hats to their perfectly polished boots. It was dimly felt as an outrage that anybody should be so well - dressed in the well - bred freedom of Mandeville College. The only excuse was that they were foreigners. One was an American, a millionaire named Hake, dressed in the spotlessly and sparklingly gentlemanly manner known only to the rich of New York. The other, who added to all these things the outrage of an astrakhan overcoat (to say nothing of a pair of florid whiskers), was a German Count of great wealth, the shortest part of whose name was Von Zimmern. The mystery of this story, however, is not the mystery of why they were there. They were there for the reason that commonly explains the meeting of incongruous things; they proposed to give the College some money. They had come in support of a plan supported by several financiers and magnates of many countries, for founding a new Chair of Economics at Mandeville College. They had inspected the College with that tireless conscientious sightseeing of which no sons of Eve are capable except the American and the German. And now they were resting from their labours and looking solemnly at the College gardens. So far so good.

The three other men, who had already met them, passed with a vague salutation; but one of them stopped; the smallest of the three, in the black clerical clothes.

‘I say,’ he said, with rather the air of a frightened rabbit, ‘I don’t like the look of those men.’

‘Good God! Who could?’ ejaculated the tall man, who happened to be the Master of Mandeville. ‘At least we have some rich men who don’t go about dressed up like tailors’ dummies.’

‘Yes,’ hissed the little cleric, ‘that’s what I mean. Like tailors’ dummies.’

‘Why, what do you mean?’ asked the shorter of the other men, sharply.

‘I mean they’re like horrible waxworks,’ said the cleric in a faint voice. ‘I mean they don’t move. Why don’t they move?’

Suddenly starting out of his dim retirement, he darted across the garden and touched the German Baron on the elbow. The German Baron fell over, chair and all, and the trousered legs that stuck up in the air were as stiff as the legs of the chair.

Mr Gideon P. Hake continued to gaze at the College gardens with glassy eyes; but the parallel of a waxwork confirmed the impression that they were like eyes made of glass. Somehow the rich sunlight and the coloured garden increased the creepy impression of a stiffly dressed doll; a marionette on an Italian stage. The small man in black, who was a priest named Brown, tentatively touched the millionaire on the shoulder, and the millionaire fell sideways, but horribly all of a piece, like something carved in wood.

‘Rigor mortis,’ said Father Brown, ‘and so soon. But it does vary a good deal.’

The reason the first three men had joined the other two men so late (not to say too late) will best be understood by noting what had happened just inside the building, behind the Tudor archway, but a short time before they came out. They had all dined together in Hall, at the High Table; but the two foreign philanthropists, slaves of duty in the matter of seeing everything, had solemnly gone back to the chapel, of which one cloister and a staircase remained unexamined; promising to rejoin the rest in the garden, to examine as earnestly the College cigars. The rest, in a more reverent and right - minded spirit, had adjourned as usual to the long narrow oak table, round which the after - dinner wine had circulated, for all anybody knew, ever since the College had been founded in the Middle Ages by Sir John Mandeville, for the encouragement of telling stories. The Master, with the big fair beard and bald brow, took the head of the table, and the squat man in the square jacket sat on his left; for he was the Bursar or business man of the College. Next to him, on that side of the table, sat a queer - looking man with what could only be called a crooked face; for its dark tufts of moustache and eyebrow, slanting at contrary angles, made a sort of zig - zag, as if half his face were puckered or paralysed. His name was Byles; he was the lecturer in Roman History, and his political opinions were founded on those of Coriolanus, not to mention Tarquinius Superbus. This tart Toryism, and rabidly reactionary view of all current problems, was not altogether unknown among the more old - fashioned sort of dons; but in the case of Byles there was a suggestion that it was a result rather than a cause of his acerbity. More than one sharp observer had received the impression that there was something really wrong with Byles; that some secret or some great misfortune had embittered him; as if that half

• withered face had really been blasted like a storm - stricken tree. Beyond him again sat Father Brown and at the end of the table a Professor of Chemistry, large and blond and bland, with eyes that were sleepy and perhaps a little sly. It was well known that this natural philosopher regarded the other philosophers, of a more classical tradition, very much as old logics. On the other side of the table, opposite Father Brown, was a very swarthy and silent young man, with a black pointed beard, introduced because somebody had insisted on having a Chair of Persian; opposite the sinister Byles was a very mild - looking little Chaplain, with a head like an egg. Opposite the Bursar and at the right hand of the Master, was an empty chair; and there were many there who were glad to see it empty.

‘I don’t know whether Craken is coming,’ said the Master, not without a nervous glance at the chair, which contrasted with the usual languid freedom of his demeanour. ‘I believe in giving people a lot of rope myself; but I confess I’ve reached the point of being glad when he is here, merely because he isn’t anywhere else.’

‘Never know what he’ll be up to next,’ said the Bursar, cheerfully, ‘especially when he’s instructing the young.’

‘A brilliant fellow, but fiery of course,’ said the Master, with a rather abrupt relapse into reserve.

“Fireworks are fiery, and also brilliant,” growled old Byles, ‘but I don’t want to be burned in my bed so that Craken can figure as a real Guy Fawkes.’

‘Do you really think he would join a physical force revolution, if there were one,’ asked the Bursar smiling.

‘Well, he thinks he would,’ said Byles sharply. ‘Told a whole hall full of undergraduates the other day that nothing now could avert the Class War turning into a real war, with killing in the streets of the town; and it didn’t matter, so long as it ended in Communism and the victory of the working - class.’

‘The Class War,’ mused the Master, with a sort of distaste mellowed by distance; for he had known William Morris long ago and been familiar enough with the more artistic and leisurely Socialists. ‘I never can understand all this about the Class War. When I was young, Socialism was supposed to mean saying that there are no classes.’

“Nother way of saying that Socialists are no class,’ said Byles with sour relish.

‘Of course, you’d be more against them than I should,’ said the Master thoughtfully, ‘but I suppose my Socialism is almost as old - fashioned as your Toryism. Wonder what our young friends really think. What do you think. Baker?’ he said abruptly to the Bursar on his left.

‘Oh, I don’t think, as the vulgar saying is,’ said the Bursar laughing. ‘You must remember I’m a very vulgar person. I’m not a thinker. I’m only a business man; and as a business man I think it’s all bosh. You can’t make men equal and it’s damned bad business to pay them equal; especially a lot of them not worth paying for at all. Whatever it is, you’ve got to take the practical way out, because it’s the only way out. It’s not our fault if nature made everything a scramble.’

‘I agree with you there,’ said the Professor of Chemistry, speaking with a lisp that seemed childish in so large a man. ‘Communism pretends to be oh so modern; but it is not. Throwback to the superstitions of monks and primitive tribes. A scientific government, with a really ethical responsibility to posterity, would be always looking for the line of promise and progress; not levelling and flattening it all back into the mud again. Socialism is sentimentalism; and more dangerous than a pestilence, for in that at least the fittest would survive.’

The Master smiled a little sadly. ‘You know you and I will never feel quite the same about differences of opinion. Didn’t somebody say up here, about walking with a friend by the river, “Not differing much, except in opinion.” Isn’t that the motto of a university? To have hundreds of opinions and not be opinionated. If people fall here, it’s by what they are, not what they think. Perhaps I’m a relic of the eighteenth century; but I incline to the old sentimental heresy, “For forms of faith let graceless zealots fight; he can’t he wrong whose life is in the right.” What do you think about that, Father Brown?’

He glanced a little mischievously across at the priest and was mildly startled. For he had always found the priest very cheerful and amiable and easy to get on with; and his round face was mostly solid with good humour. But for some reason the priest’s face at this moment was knotted with a frown much more sombre than any the company had ever seen on it; so that for an instant that commonplace countenance actually looked darker and more ominous than the haggard face of Byles. An instant later the cloud seemed lo have passed; but Father Brown still spoke with a certain sobriety and firmness.

‘I don’t believe in that, anyhow,’ he said shortly. ‘How can his life be in the right, if his whole view of life is wrong? That’s a modern muddle that arose because people didn’t know how much views of life can differ. Baptists and Methodists knew they didn’t differ very much in morality; but then they didn’t differ very much in religion or philosophy. It’s quite different when you pass from the Baptists to the Anabaptists; or from the Theosophists to the Thugs. Heresy always does affect morality, if it’s heretical enough. I suppose a man may honestly believe that thieving isn’t wrong. But what’s the good of saying that he honestly believes in dishonesty?’

‘Damned good,’ said Byles with a ferocious contortion of feature, believed by many to be meant for a friendly smile. ‘And that’s why I object to having a Chair of Theoretical Thieving in this College.’

‘Well, you’re all very down on Communism, of course,’ said the Master, with a sigh. ‘But do you really think there’s so much of it to be down on? Are any of your heresies really big enough to be dangerous?’

‘I think they have grown so big,’ said Father Brown gravely, ‘that in some circles they are already taken for granted. They are actually unconscious. That is, without conscience.’

‘And the end of it,’ said Byles, ‘will be the ruin of this country.’

‘The end will be something worse,’ said Father Brown.

A shadow shot or slid rapidly along the panelled wall opposite, as swiftly followed by the figure that had flung it; a tall but stooping figure with a vague outline like a bird of prey; accentuated by the fact that its sudden appearance and swift passage were like those of a bird startled and flying from a bush. It was only the figure of a long - limbed, high - shouldered man with long drooping moustaches, in fact, familiar enough to them all; but something in the twilight and candlelight and the flying and streaking shadow connected it strangely with the priest’s unconscious words of omen; for all the world, as if those words had indeed been an augury, in the old Roman sense; and the sign of it the flight of a bird. Perhaps Mr Byles might have given a lecture on such Roman augury; and especially on that bird of ill - omen.

The tall man shot along the wall like his own shadow until he sank into the empty chair on the Master’s right, and looked across at the Bursar and the rest with hollow and cavernous eyes. His hanging hair and moustache were quite fair, but his eyes were so deep - set that they might have been black. Everyone knew, or could guess, who the newcomer was; but an incident instantly followed that sufficiently illuminated the situation. The Professor of Roman History rose stiffly to his feet and stalked out of the room, indicating with little finesse his feelings about sitting at the same table with the Professor of Theoretical Thieving, otherwise the Communist, Mr Craken.

The Master of Mandeville covered the awkward situation with nervous grace. ‘I was defending you, or some aspects of you, my dear Craken,’ he said smiling, ‘though I am sure you would find me quite indefensible. After all, I can’t forget that the old Socialist friends of my youth had a very fine ideal of fraternity and comradeship. William Morris put it all in a sentence, “Fellowship is heaven; and lack of fellowship is hell.”

‘Dons as Democrats; see headline,’ said Mr Craken rather disagreeably. ‘And is Hard - Case Hake going to dedicate the new Commercial Chair to the memory of William Morris?’

‘Well,’ said the Master, still maintaining a desperate geniality, ‘I hope we may say, in a sense, that all our Chairs are Chairs of good - fellowship.’

‘Yes; that’s the academic version of the Morris maxim,’ growled Craken. ‘“A Fellowship is heaven; and lack of a Fellowship is hell.”’

‘Don’t be so cross, Craken,’ interposed the Bursar briskly. ‘Take some port. Tenby, pass the port to Mr Craken.’

‘Oh well, I’ll have a glass,’ said the Communist Professor a little less ungraciously. ‘I really came down here to have a smoke in the garden. Then I looked out of the window and saw your two precious millionaires were actually blooming in the garden; fresh, innocent buds. After all, it might be worth while to give them a bit of my mind.’

The Master had risen under cover of his last conventional cordiality, and was only too glad to leave the Bursar to do his best with the Wild Man. Others had risen, and the groups at the table had begun to break up; and the Bursar and Mr Craken were left more or less alone at the end of the long table. Only Father Brown continued to sit staring into vacancy with a rather cloudy expression.

‘Oh, as to that,’ said the Bursar. ‘I’m pretty tired of them myself, to tell the truth; I’ve been with them the best part of a day going into facts and figures and all the business of this new Professorship. But look here, Craken,’ and he leaned across the table and spoke with a sort of soft emphasis, ‘you really needn’t cut up so rough about this new Professorship. It doesn’t really interfere with your subject. You’re the only Professor of Political Economy at Mandeville and, though I don’t pretend to agree with your notions, everybody knows you’ve got a European reputation. This is a special subject they call Applied Economics. Well, even today, as I told you, I’ve had a hell of a lot of Applied Economics. In other words, I’ve had to talk business with two business men. Would you particularly want to do that? Would you envy it? Would you stand it? Isn’t that evidence enough that there is a separate subject and may well be a separate Chair?’

‘Good God,’ cried Craken with the intense invocation of the atheist. ‘Do you think I don’t want to apply Economics? Only, when we apply it, you call it red ruin and anarchy; and when you apply it, I take the liberty of calling it exploitation. If only you fellows would apply Economics, it’s just possible that people might get something to eat. We are the practical people; and that’s why you’re afraid of us. That’s why you have to get two greasy Capitalists to start another Lectureship; just because I’ve let the cat out of the bag.’

‘Rather a wild cat, wasn’t it?’ said the Bursar smiling, ‘that you let out of the bag?’

‘And rather a gold - bag, wasn’t it,’ said Craken, ‘that you are tying the cat up in again?’

‘Well, I don’t suppose we shall ever agree about all that,’ said the other. ‘But those fellows have come out of their chapel into the garden; and if you want to have your smoke there, you’d better come.’ He watched with some amusement his companion fumbling in all his pockets till he produced a pipe, and then, gazing at it with an abstracted air, Craken rose to his feet, but even in doing so, seemed to be feeling all over himself again. Mr Baker the Bursar ended the controversy with a happy laugh of reconciliation. ‘You are the practical people, and you will blow up the town with dynamite. Only you’ll probably forget the dynamite, as I bet you’ve forgotten the tobacco. Never mind, take a fill of mine. Matches?’ He threw a tobacco - pouch and its accessories across the table; to be caught by Mr Craken with that dexterity never forgotten by a cricketer, even when he adopts opinions generally regarded as not cricket. The two men rose together; but Baker could not forbear remarking, ‘Are you really the only practical people? Isn’t there anything to be said for the Applied Economics, that remembers to carry a tobacco - pouch as well as a pipe?’

Craken looked at him with smouldering eyes; and said at last, after slowly draining the last of his wine: ‘Let’s say there’s another sort of practicality. I dare say I do forget details and so on. What I want you to understand is this’ - he automatically returned the pouch; but his eyes were far away and jet - burning, almost terrible - ‘because the inside of our intellect has changed, because we really have a new idea of right, we shall do things you think really wrong. And they will be very practical.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, suddenly coming out of his trance. ‘That’s exactly what I said.’

He looked across at Craken with a glassy and rather ghastly smile, saying: ‘Mr Craken and I are in complete agreement.’

‘Well,’ said Baker, ‘Craken is going out to smoke a pipe with the plutocrats; but I doubt whether it will be a pipe of peace.’

He turned rather abruptly and called to an aged attendant in the background. Mandeville was one of the last of the very old - fashioned Colleges; and even Craken was one of the first of the Communists; before the Bolshevism of today. ‘That reminds me,’ the Bursar was saying, ‘as you won’t hand round your peace pipe, we must send out the cigars to our distinguished guests. If they’re smokers they must be longing for a smoke; for they’ve been nosing about in the chapel since feeding - time.’

Craken exploded with a savage and jarring laugh. ‘Oh, I’ll take them their cigars,’ he said. ‘I’m only a proletarian.’

Baker and Brown and the attendant were all witnesses to the fact that the Communist strode furiously into the garden to confront the millionaires; but nothing more was seen or heard of them until, as is already recorded, Father Brown found them dead in their chairs.

It was agreed that the Master and the priest should remain to guard the scene of tragedy, while the Bursar, younger and more rapid in his movements, ran off to fetch doctors and policemen. Father Brown approached the table on which one of the cigars had burned itself away all but an inch or two; the other had dropped from the hand and been dashed out into dying sparks on the crazy - pavement. The Master of Mandeville sat down rather shakily on a sufficiently distant seat and buried his bald brow in his hands. Then he looked up at first rather wearily; and then he looked very startled indeed and broke the stillness of the garden with a word like a small explosion of horror.

There was a certain quality about Father Brown which might sometimes be called blood - curdling. He always thought about what he was doing and never about whether it was done; he would do the most ugly or horrible or undignified or dirty things as calmly as a surgeon. There was a certain blank, in his simple mind, of all those things commonly associated with being superstitious or sentimental. He sat down on the chair from which the corpse had fallen, picked up the cigar the corpse had partially smoked, carefully detached the ash, examined the butt - end and then stuck it in his mouth and lit it. It looked like some obscene and grotesque antic in derision of the dead; and it seemed to him to be the most ordinary common sense. A cloud floated upwards like the smoke of some savage sacrifice and idolatry; but to Father Brown it appeared a perfectly self - evident fact that the only way to find out what a cigar is like is to smoke it. Nor did it lessen the horror for his old friend, the Master of Mandeville, to have a dim but shrewd guess that Father Brown was, upon the possibilities of the case, risking his own life.

‘No; I think that’s all right,’ said the priest, putting the stump down again. ‘Jolly good cigars. Your cigars. Not American or German. I don’t think there’s anything odd about the cigar itself; but they’d better take care of the ashes. These men were poisoned somehow with the sort of stuff that stiffens the body quickly … By the way, there goes somebody who knows more about it than we do.’

The Master sat up with a curiously uncomfortable jolt; for indeed the large shadow which had fallen across the pathway preceded a figure which, however heavy, was almost as soft - footed as a shadow. Professor Wadham, eminent occupant of the Chair of Chemistry, always moved very quietly in spite of his size, and there was nothing odd about his strolling in the garden; yet there seemed something unnaturally neat in his appearing at the exact moment when chemistry was mentioned.

Professor Wadham prided himself on his quietude; some would say his insensibility. He did not turn a hair on his flattened flaxen head, but stood looking down at the dead men with a shade of something like indifference on his large froglike face. Only when he looked at the cigar - ash, which the priest had preserved, he touched it with one finger; then he seemed to stand even stiller than before; but in the shadow of his face his eyes for an instant seemed to shoot out telescopically like one of his own microscopes. He had certainly realized or recognized something; but he said nothing.

‘I don’t know where anyone is to begin in this business,’ said the Master.

‘I should begin,’ said Father Brown, ‘by asking where these unfortunate men had been most of the time today.’

‘They were messing about in my laboratory for a good time,’ said Wadham, speaking for the first time. ‘Baker often comes up to have a chat, and this time he brought his two patrons to inspect my department. But I think they went everywhere; real tourists. I know they went to the chapel and even into the tunnel under the crypt, where you have to light candles; instead of digesting their food like sane men. Baker seems to have taken them everywhere.’

‘Were they interested in anything particular in your department?’ asked the priest. ‘What were you doing there just then?’

The Professor of Chemistry murmured a chemical formula beginning with ‘sulphate’, and ending with something that sounded like ‘silenium’; unintelligible to both his hearers. He then wandered wearily away and sat on a remote bench in the sun, closing his eyes, but turning up his large face with heavy forbearance.

At his point, by a sharp contrast, the lawns were crossed by a brisk figure travelling as rapidly and as straight as a bullet; and Father Brown recognized the neat black clothes and shrewd doglike face of a police - surgeon whom he had met in the poorer parts of town. He was the first to arrive of the official contingent.

‘Look here,’ said the Master to the priest, before the doctor was within earshot. ‘I must know something. Did you mean what you said about Communism being a real danger and leading to crime?’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown smiling rather grimly, ‘I have really noticed the spread of some Communist ways and influences; and, in one sense, this is a Communist crime.’

‘Thank you,’ said the Master. ‘Then I must go off and see to something at once. Tell the authorities I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

The Master had vanished into one of the Tudor archways at just about the moment when the police - doctor had reached the table and cheerfully recognized Father Brown. On the latter’s suggestion that they should sit down at the tragic table, Dr Blake threw one sharp and doubtful glance at the big, bland and seemingly somnolent chemist, who occupied a more remote seat. He was duly informed of the Professor’s identity, and what had so far been gathered of the Professor’s evidence; and listened to it silently while conducting a preliminary examination of the dead bodies. Naturally, he seemed more concentrated on the actual corpses than on the hearsay evidence, until one detail suddenly distracted him entirely from the science of anatomy.

‘What did the Professor say he was working at?’ he inquired.

Father Brown patiently repeated the chemical formula he did not understand.

‘What?’ snapped Dr Blake, like a pistol - shot. ‘Gosh! This is pretty frightful!’

‘Because it’s poison?’ inquired Father Brown.

‘Because it’s piffle,’ replied Dr Blake. ‘It’s simply nonsense. The Professor is quite a famous chemist. Why is a famous chemist deliberately talking nonsense?’

‘Well, I think I know that one,’ answered Father Brown mildly. ‘He is talking nonsense, because he is telling lies. He is concealing something; and he wanted specially to conceal it from these two men and their representatives.’

The doctor lifted his eyes from the two men and looked across at the almost unnaturally immobile figure of the great chemist. He might almost have been asleep; a garden butterfly had settled upon him and seemed to turn his stillness into that of a stone idol. The large folds of his froglike face reminded the doctor of the hanging skins of a rhinoceros.

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, in a very low voice. ‘He is a wicked man.’

‘God damn it all!’ cried the doctor, suddenly moved to his very depths. ‘Do you mean that a great scientific man like that deals in murder?’

‘Fastidious critics would have complained of his dealing in murder,’ said the priest dispassionately. ‘I don’t say I’m very fond of people dealing in murder in that way myself. But what’s much more to the point

• I’m sure that these poor fellows were among his fastidious critics.’

‘You mean they found his secret and he silenced them?’ said Blake frowning. ‘But what in hell was his secret? How could a man murder on a large scale in a place like this?’

‘I have told you his secret,’ said the priest. ‘It is a secret of the soul. He is a bad man. For heaven’s sake don’t fancy I say that because he and I are of opposite schools or traditions. I have a crowd of scientific friends; and most of them are heroically disinterested. Even of the most sceptical, I would only say they are rather irrationally disinterested. But now and then you do get a man who is a materialist, in the sense of a beast. I repeat he’s a bad man. Much worse than - ’ And Father Brown seemed to hesitate for a word.

‘You mean much worse than the Communist?’ suggested the other.

‘No; I mean much worse than the murderer,’ said Father Brown.

He got to his feet in an abstracted manner; and hardly realized that his companion was staring at him.

‘But didn’t you mean,’ asked Blake at last, ‘that this Wadham is the murderer?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Father Brown more cheerfully. ‘The murderer is a much more sympathetic and understandable person. He at least was desperate; and had the excuses of sudden rage and despair.’

‘Why,’ cried the doctor, ‘do you mean it was the Communist after all?’

It was at this very moment, appropriately enough, that the police officials appeared with an announcement that seemed to conclude the case in a most decisive and satisfactory manner. They had been somewhat delayed in reaching the scene of the crime, by the simple fact that they had already captured the criminal. Indeed, they had captured him almost at the gates of their own official residence. They had already had reason to suspect the activities of Craken the Communist during various disorders in the town; when they heard of the outrage they felt it safe to arrest him; and found the arrest thoroughly justified. For, as Inspector Cook radiantly explained to dons and doctors on the lawn of Mandeville garden, no sooner was the notorious Communist searched, than it was found that he was actually carrying a box of poisoned matches.

The moment Father Brown heard the word ‘matches’, he jumped from his seat as if a match had been lighted under him.

‘Ah,’ he cried, with a sort of universal radiance, ‘and now it’s all clear.’

‘What do you mean by all clear?’ demanded the Master of Mandeville, who had returned in all the pomp of his own officialism to match the pomp of the police officials now occupying the College like a victorious army. ‘Do you mean you are convinced now that the case against Craken is clear?’

‘I mean that Craken is cleared,’ said Father Brown firmly, ‘and the case against Craken is cleared away. Do you really believe Craken is the kind of man who would go about poisoning people with matches?’

‘That’s all very well,’ replied the Master, with the troubled expression he had never lost since the first sensation occurred. ‘But it was you yourself who said that fanatics with false principles may do wicked things. For that matter, it was you yourself who said that Communism is creeping up everywhere and Communistic habits spreading.’

Father Brown laughed in a rather shamefaced manner.

‘As to the last point,’ he said, ‘I suppose I owe you all an apology. I seem to be always making a mess of things with my silly little jokes.’

‘Jokes!’ repeated the Master, staring rather indignantly.

‘Well,’ explained the priest, rubbing his head. ‘When I talked about a Communist habit spreading, I only meant a habit I happen to have noticed about two or three times even today. It is a Communist habit by no means confined to Communists. It is the extraordinary habit of so many men, especially Englishmen, of putting other people’s matchboxes in their pockets without remembering to return them. Of course, it seems an awfully silly little trifle to talk about. But it does happen to be the way the crime was committed.’

‘It sounds to me quite crazy,’ said the doctor.

‘Well, if almost any man may forget to return matches, you can bet your boots that Craken would forget to return them. So the poisoner who had prepared the matches got rid of them on to Craken, by the simple process of lending them and not getting them back. A really admirable way of shedding responsibility; because Craken himself would be perfectly unable to imagine where he had got them from. But when he used them quite innocently to light the cigars he offered to our two visitors, he was caught in an obvious trap; one of those too obvious traps. He was the bold bad Revolutionist murdering two millionaires.’

‘Well, who else would want to murder them?’ growled the doctor.

‘Ah, who indeed?’ replied the priest; and his voice changed to much greater gravity. ‘There we come to the other thing I told you; and that, let me tell you, was not a joke. I told you that heresies and false doctrines had become common and conversational; that everybody was used to them; that nobody really noticed them. Did you think I meant Communism when I said that? Why, it was just the other way. You were all as nervous as cats about Communism; and you watched Craken like a wolf. Of course. Communism is a heresy; but it isn’t a heresy that you people take for granted. It is Capitalism you take for granted; or rather the vices of Capitalism disguised as a dead Darwinism. Do you recall what you were all saying in the Common Room, about life being only a scramble, and nature demanding the survival of the fittest, and how it doesn’t matter whether the poor are paid justly or not? Why, that is the heresy that you have grown accustomed to, my friends; and it’s every bit as much a heresy as Communism. That’s the anti - Christian morality or immorality that you take quite naturally. And that’s the immorality that has made a man a murderer today.’

‘What man?’ cried the Master, and his voice cracked with a sudden weakness.

‘Let me approach it another way,’ said the priest placidly. ‘You all talk as if Craken ran away; but he didn’t. When the two men toppled over, he ran down the street, summoned the doctor merely by shouting through the window, and shortly afterwards was trying to summon the police. That was how he was arrested. But doesn’t it strike you, now one comes to think of it, that Mr Baker the Bursar is rather a long time looking for the police?’

‘What is he doing then?’ asked the Master sharply.

‘I fancy he’s destroying papers; or perhaps ransacking these men’s rooms to see they haven’t left us a letter. Or it may have something to do with our friend Wadham. Where does he come in? That is really very simple and a sort of joke too. Mr Wadham is experimenting in poisons for the next war; and has something of which a whiff of flame will stiffen a man dead. Of course, he had nothing to do with killing these men; but he did conceal his chemical secret for a very simple reason. One of them was a Puritan Yankee and the other a cosmopolitan Jew; and those two types are often fanatical Pacifists. They would have called it planning murder and probably refused to help the College. But Baker was a friend of Wadham and it was easy for him to dip matches in the new material.’

Another peculiarity of the little priest was that his mind was all of a piece, and he was unconscious of many incongruities; he would change the note of his talk from something quite public to something quite private, without any particular embarrassment. On this occasion, he made most of the company stare with mystification, by beginning to talk to one person when he had just been talking to ten; quite indifferent to the fact that only the one could have any notion of what he was talking about.

‘I’m sorry if I misled you, doctor, by that maundering metaphysical digression on the man of sin,’ he said apologetically. ‘Of course it had nothing to do with the murder; but the truth is I’d forgotten all about the murder for the moment. I’d forgotten everything, you see, but a sort of vision of that fellow, with his vast unhuman face, squatting among the flowers like some blind monster of the Stone Age. And I was thinking that some men are pretty monstrous, like men of stone; but it was all irrelevant. Being bad inside has very little to do with committing crimes outside. The worst criminals have committed no crimes. The practical point is why did the practical criminal commit this crime. Why did Baker the Bursar want to kill these men? That’s all that concerns us now. The answer is the answer to the question I’ve asked twice. Where were these men most of the time, apart from nosing in chapels or laboratories? By the Bursar’s own account, they were talking business with the Bursar.

‘Now, with all respect to the dead, I do not exactly grovel before the intellect of these two financiers. Their views on economics and ethics were heathen and heartless. Their views on Peace were tosh. Their views on Port were even more deplorable. But one thing they did understand; and that was business. And it took them a remarkably short time to discover that the business man in charge of the funds of this College was a swindler. Or shall I say, a true follower of the doctrine of the unlimited struggle for life and the survival of the fittest.’

‘You mean they were going to expose him and he killed them before they could speak,’ said the doctor frowning. ‘There are a lot of details I don’t understand.’

‘There are some details I’m not sure of myself,’ said the priest frankly. ‘I suspect all that business of candles underground had something to do with abstracting the millionaires’ own matches, or perhaps making sure they had no matches. But I’m sure of the main gesture, the gay and careless gesture of Baker tossing his matches to the careless Craken. That gesture was the murderous blow.’

‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ said the Inspector. ‘How did Baker know that Craken wouldn’t light up himself then and there at the table and become an unwanted corpse?’

The face of Father Brown became almost heavy with reproach; and his voice had a sort of mournful yet generous warmth in it.

‘Well, hang it all,’ he said, ‘he was only an atheist.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,’ said the Inspector, politely.

‘He only wanted to abolish God,’ explained Father Brown in a temperate and reasonable tone. ‘He only wanted to destroy the Ten Commandments and root up all the religion and civilization that had made him, and wash out all the common sense of ownership and honesty; and let his culture and his country be flattened out by savages from the ends of the earth. That’s all he wanted. You have no right to accuse him of anything beyond that. Hang it all, everybody draws the line somewhere! And you come here and calmly suggest that a Mandeville Man of the old generation (for Craken was of the old generation, whatever his views) would have begun to smoke, or even strike a match, while he was still drinking the College Port, of the vintage of ‘08 - no, no; men are not so utterly without laws and limits as all that! I was there; I saw him; he had not finished his wine, and you ask me why he did not smoke! No such anarchic question has ever shaken the arches of Mandeville College Funny place, Mandeville College. Funny place, Oxford. Funny place, England.’

‘But you haven’t anything particular to do with Oxford?’ asked the doctor curiously.

‘I have to do with England,’ said Father Brown. ‘I come from there. And the funniest thing of all is that even if you love it and belong to it, you still can’t make head or tail of it.’

SEVEN: The Point of a Pin

Father Brown always declared that he solved this problem in his sleep. And this was true, though in rather an odd fashion; because it occurred at a time when his sleep was rather disturbed. It was disturbed very early in the morning by the hammering that began in the huge building, or half - building, that was in process of erection opposite to his rooms; a colossal pile of flats still mostly covered with scaffolding and with boards announcing Messrs Swindon & Sand as the builders and owners. The hammering was renewed at regular intervals and was easily recognizable: because Messrs Swindon & Sand specialized in some new American system of cement flooring which, in spite of its subsequent smoothness, solidity, impenetrability and permanent comfort (as described in the advertisements), had to be clamped down at certain points with heavy tools. Father Brown endeavoured, however, to extract exiguous comfort from it; saying that it always woke him up in time for the very earliest Mass, and was therefore something almost in the nature of a carillon. After all, he said, it was almost as poetic that Christians should be awakened by hammers as by bells. As a fact, however, the building operations were a little on his nerves, for another reason. For there was hanging like a cloud over the half - built skyscraper the possibility of a Labour crisis, which the newspapers doggedly insisted on describing as a Strike. As a matter of fact, if it ever happened, it would be a Lock - out. But he worried a good deal about whether it would happen. And it might be questioned whether hammering is more of a strain on the attention because it may go on for ever, or because it may stop at any minute.

‘As a mere matter of taste and fancy,’ said Father Brown, staring up at the edifice with his owlish spectacles, ‘I rather wish it would stop. I wish all houses would stop while they still have the scaffolding up. It seems almost a pity that houses are ever finished. They look so fresh and hopeful with all that fairy filigree of white wood, all light and bright in the sun; and a man so often only finishes a house by turning it into a tomb.’

As he turned away from the object of his scrutiny, he nearly ran into a man who had just darted across the road towards him. It was a man whom he knew slightly, but sufficiently to regard him (in the circumstances) as something of a bird of ill - omen. Mr Mastyk was a squat man with a square head that looked hardly European, dressed with a heavy dandyism that seemed rather too consciously Europeanized. But Brown had seen him lately talking to young Sand of the building firm; and he did not like it. This man Mastyk was the head of an organization rather new in English industrial politics; produced by extremes at both ends; a definite army of non - Union and largely alien labour hired out in gangs to various firms; and he was obviously hovering about in the hope of hiring it out to this one. In short, he might negotiate some way of out

• manoeuvring the Trade Union and flooding the works with blacklegs. Father Brown had been drawn into some of the debates, being in some sense called in on both sides. And as the Capitalists all reported that, to their positive knowledge, he was a Bolshevist; and as the Bolshevists all testified that he was a reactionary rigidly attached to bourgeois ideologies, it may be inferred that he talked a certain amount of sense without any appreciable effect on anybody. The news brought by Mr Mastyk, however, was calculated to jerk everybody out of the ordinary rut of the dispute.

‘They want you to go over there at once,’ said Mr Mastyk, in awkwardly accented English. ‘There is a threat to murder.’

Father Brown followed his guide in silence up several stairways and ladders to a platform of the unfinished building, on which were grouped the more or less familiar figures of the heads of the building business. They included even what had once been the head of it; though the head had been for some time rather a head in the clouds. It was at least a head in a coronet, that hid it from human sight like a cloud. Lord Stanes, in other words, had not only retired from the business but been caught up into the House of Lords and disappeared. His rare reappearances were languid and somewhat dreary; but this one, in conjunction with that of Mastyk, seemed none the less menacing. Lord Stanes was a lean, long - headed, hollow - eyed man with very faint fair hair fading into baldness; and he was the most evasive person the priest had ever met. He was unrivalled in the true Oxford talent of saying, ‘No doubt you’re right,’ so as to sound like, ‘No doubt you think you’re right,’ or of merely remarking, ‘You think so?’ so as to imply the acid addition, ‘You would.’ But Father Brown fancied that the man was not merely bored but faintly embittered, though whether at being called down from Olympus to control such trade squabbles, or merely at not being really any longer in control of them, it was difficult to guess.

On the whole, Father Brown rather preferred the more bourgeois group of partners. Sir Hubert Sand and his nephew Henry; though he doubted privately whether they really had very many ideologies. True, Sir Hubert Sand had obtained considerable celebrity in the newspapers; both as a patron of sport and as a patriot in many crises during and after the Great War. He had won notable distinction in France, for a man of his years, and had afterwards been featured as a triumphant captain of industry overcoming difficulties among the munition - workers. He had been called a Strong Man; but that was not his fault. He was in fact a heavy, hearty Englishman; a great swimmer; a good squire; an admirable amateur colonel. Indeed, something that can only be called a military makeup pervaded his appearance. He was growing stout, but he kept his shoulders set back; his curly hair and moustache were still brown while the colours of his face were already somewhat withered and faded. His nephew was a burly youth of the pushing, or rather shouldering, sort with a relatively small head thrust out on a thick neck, as if he went at things with his head down; a gesture somehow rendered rather quaint and boyish by the pince - nez that were balanced on his pugnacious pug - nose.

Father Brown had looked at all these things before; and at that moment everybody was looking at something entirely new. In the centre of the wood - work there was nailed up a large loose flapping piece of paper on which something was scrawled in crude and almost crazy capital letters, as if the writer were either almost illiterate or were affecting or parodying illiteracy. The words actually ran: ‘The Council of the Workers warns Hubert Sand that he will lower wages and lock out workmen at his peril. If the notices go out tomorrow, he will be dead by the justice of the people.’

Lord Stanes was just stepping back from his examination of the paper, and, looking across at his partner, he said with rather a curious intonation: ‘Well, it’s you they want to murder. Evidently I’m not considered worth murdering.’

One of those still electric shocks of fancy that sometimes thrilled Father Brown’s mind in an almost meaningless way shot through him at that particular instant. He had a queer notion that the man who was speaking could not now be murdered, because he was already dead. It was, he cheerfully admitted, a perfectly senseless idea. But there was something that always gave him the creeps about the cold disenchanted detachment of the noble senior partner; about his cadaverous colour and inhospitable eyes. ‘The fellow,’ he thought in the same perverse mood, ‘has green eyes and looks as if he had green blood.’

Anyhow, it was certain that Sir Hubert Sand had not got green blood. His blood, which was red enough in every sense, was creeping up into his withered or weather - beaten cheeks with all the warm fullness of life that belongs to the natural and innocent indignation of the good - natured.

‘In all my life,’ he said, in a strong voice and yet shakily, ‘I have never had such a thing said or done about me. I may have differed - ’

‘We can none of us differ about this,’ struck in his nephew impetuously. ‘I’ve tried to get on with them, but this is a bit too thick.’

‘You don’t really think,’ began Father Brown, ‘that your workmen - ’

‘I say we may have differed,’ said old Sand, still a little tremulously, ‘God knows I never like the idea of threatening English workmen with cheaper labour - ’

‘We none of us liked it,’ said the young man, ‘but if I know you, uncle, this has about settled it.’

Then after a pause he added, ‘I suppose, as you say, we did disagree about details; but as to real policy - ’

‘My dear fellow,’ said his uncle, comfortably. ‘I hoped there would never be any real disagreement.’ From which anybody who understands the English nation may rightly infer that there had been very considerable disagreement. Indeed the uncle and nephew differed almost as much as an Englishman and an American. The uncle had the English ideal of getting outside the business, and setting up a sort of an alibi as a country gentleman. The nephew had the American ideal of getting inside the business; of getting inside the very mechanism like a mechanic. And, indeed, he had worked with most of the mechanics and was familiar with most of the processes and tricks of the trade. And he was American again, in the fact that he did this partly as an employer to keep his men up to the mark, but in some vague way also as an equal, or at least with a pride in showing himself also as a worker. For this reason he had often appeared almost as a representative of the workers, on technical points which were a hundred miles away from his uncle’s popular eminence in politics or sport. The memory of those many occasions, when young Henry had practically come out of the workshop in his shirt - sleeves, to demand some concession about the conditions of the work, lent a peculiar force and even violence to his present reaction the other way.

‘Well, they’ve damned - well locked themselves out this time,’ he cried. ‘After a threat like that there’s simply nothing left but to defy them. There’s nothing left but to sack them all now; instanter; on the spot. Otherwise we’ll be the laughing - stock of the world.’

Old Sand frowned with equal indignation, but began slowly: ‘I shall be very much criticized - ’

‘Criticized!’ cried the young man shrilly. ‘Criticized if you defy a threat of murder! Have you any notion how you’ll be criticized if you don’t defy it? Won’t you enjoy the headlines? “Great Capitalist Terrorized” - “Employer Yields to Murder Threat.”

‘Particularly,’ said Lord Stanes, with something faintly unpleasant in his tone. ‘Particularly when he has been in so many headlines already as “The Strong Man of Steel - Building.” ’

Sand had gone very red again and his voice came thickly from under his thick moustache. ‘Of course you’re right there. If these brutes think I’m afraid - ’

At this point there was an interruption in the conversation of the group; and a slim young man came towards them swiftly. The first notable thing about him was that he was one of those whom men, and women too, think are just a little too nice - looking to look nice. He had beautiful dark curly hair and a silken moustache and he spoke like a gentleman, but with almost too refined and exactly modulated an accent. Father Brown knew him at once as Rupert Rae, the secretary of Sir Hubert, whom he had often seen pottering about in Sir Hubert’s house; but never with such impatience in his movements or such a wrinkle on his brow.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said to his employer, ‘but there’s a man been hanging about over there. I’ve done my best to get rid of him. He’s only got a letter, but he swears he must give it to you personally.’

‘You mean he went first to my house?’ said Sand, glancing swiftly at his secretary. ‘I suppose you’ve been there all the morning.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Rupert Rae.

There was a short silence; and then Sir Hubert Sand curtly intimated that the man had better be brought along; and the man duly appeared.

Nobody, not even the least fastidious lady, would have said that the newcomer was too nice - looking. He had very large ears and a face like a frog, and he stared before him with an almost ghastly fixity, which Father Brown attributed to his having a glass eye. In fact, his fancy was tempted to equip the man with two glass eyes; with so glassy a stare did he contemplate the company. But the priest’s experience, as distinct from his fancy, was able to suggest several natural causes for that unnatural waxwork glare; one of them being an abuse of the divine gift of fermented liquor. The man was short and shabby and carried a large bowler hat in one hand and a large sealed letter in the other.

Sir Hubert Sand looked at him; and then said quietly enough, but in a voice that somehow seemed curiously small, coming out of the fullness of his bodily presence: ‘Oh - it’s you.’

He held out his hand for the letter; and then looked around apologetically, with poised finger, before ripping it open and reading it. When he had read it, he stuffed it into his inside pocket and said hastily and a little harshly: ‘Well, I suppose all this business is over, as you say. No more negotiations possible now; we couldn’t pay the wages they want anyhow. But I shall want to see you again, Henry, about

• about winding things up generally.’

‘All right,’ said Henry, a little sulkily perhaps, as if he would have preferred to wind them up by himself. ‘I shall be up in number 188 after lunch; got to know how far they’ve got up there.’

The man with the glass eye, if it was a glass eye, stumped stiffly away; and the eye of Father Brown (which was by no means a glass eye) followed him thoughtfully as he threaded his way through the ladders and disappeared into the street.

It was on the following morning that Father Brown had the unusual experience of over - sleeping himself; or at least of starting from sleep with a subjective conviction that he must be late. This was partly due to his remembering, as a man may remember a dream, the fact of having been half - awakened at a more regular hour and fallen asleep again; a common enough occurrence with most of us, but a very uncommon occurrence with Father Brown. And he was afterwards oddly convinced, with that mystic side of him which was normally turned away from the world, that in that detached dark islet of dreamland, between the two wakings, there lay like buried treasure the truth of this tale.

As it was, he jumped up with great promptitude, plunged into his clothes, seized his big knobby umbrella and bustled out into the street, where the bleak white morning was breaking like splintered ice about the huge black building facing him. He was surprised to find that the streets shone almost empty in the cold crystalline light; the very look of it told him it could hardly be so late as he had feared. Then suddenly the stillness was cloven by the arrowlike swiftness of a long grey car which halted before the big deserted flats. Lord Stanes unfolded himself from within and approached the door, carrying (rather languidly) two large suitcases. At the same moment the door opened, and somebody seemed to step back instead of stepping out into the street. Stanes called twice to the man within, before that person seemed to complete his original gesture by coming out on to the doorstep; then the two held a brief colloquy, ending in the nobleman carrying his suitcases upstairs, and the other coming out into full daylight and revealing the heavy shoulders and peering head of young Henry Sand.

Father Brown made no more of this rather odd meeting, until two days later the young man drove up in his own car, and implored the priest to enter it. ‘Something awful has happened,’ he said, ‘and I’d rather talk to you than Stanes. You know Stanes arrived the other day with some mad idea of camping in one of the flats that’s just finished. That’s why I had to go there early and open the door to him. But all that will keep. I want you to come up to my uncle’s place at once.’

‘Is he ill?’ inquired the priest quickly.

‘I think he’s dead,’ answered the nephew.

‘What do you mean by saying you think he’s dead?’ asked Father Brown a little briskly. ‘Have you got a doctor?’

‘No,’ answered the other. ‘I haven’t got a doctor or a patient either …It’s no good calling in doctors to examine the body; because the body has run away. But I’m afraid I know where it has run to … the truth is

• we kept it dark for two days; but he’s disappeared.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better,’ said Father Brown mildly, ‘if you told me what has really happened from the beginning?’

‘I know,’ answered Henry Sand; ‘it’s an infernal shame to talk flippantly like this about the poor old boy; but people get like that when they’re rattled. I’m not much good at hiding things; the long and the short of it is - well, I won’t tell you the long of it now. It’s what some people would call rather a long shot; shooting suspicions at random and so on. But the short of it is that my unfortunate uncle has committed suicide.’

They were by this time skimming along in the car through the last fringes of the town and the first fringes of the forest and park beyond it; the lodge gates of Sir Hubert Sand’s small estate were about a half mile farther on amid the thickening throng of the beeches. The estate consisted chiefly of a small park and a large ornamental garden, which descended in terraces of a certain classical pomp to the very edge of the chief river of the district. As soon as they arrived at the house, Henry took the priest somewhat hastily through the old Georgian rooms and out upon the other side; where they silently descended the slope, a rather steep slope embanked with flowers, from which they could see the pale river spread out before them almost as flat as in a bird’s - eye view. They were just turning the corner of the path under an enormous classical urn crowned with a somewhat incongruous garland of geraniums, when Father Brown saw a movement in the bushes and thin trees just below him, that seemed as swift as a movement of startled birds.

In the tangle of thin trees by the river two figures seemed to divide or scatter; one of them glided swiftly into the shadows and the other came forward to face them; bringing them to a halt and an abrupt and rather unaccountable silence. Then Henry Sand said in his heavy way: ‘I think you know Father Brown … Lady Sand.’

Father Brown did know her; but at that moment he might almost have said that he did not know her. The pallor and constriction of her face was like a mask of tragedy; she was much younger than her husband, but at that moment she looked somehow older than everything in that old house and garden. And the priest remembered, with a subconscious thrill, that she was indeed older in type and lineage and was the true possessor of the place. For her own family had owned it as impoverished aristocrats, before she had restored its fortunes by marrying a successful business man. As she stood there, she might have been a family picture, or even a family ghost. Her pale face was of that pointed yet oval type seen in some old pictures of Mary Queen of Scots; and its expression seemed almost to go beyond the natural unnaturalness of a situation, in which her husband had vanished under suspicion of suicide. Father Brown, with the same subconscious movement of the mind, wondered who it was with whom she had been talking among the trees.

‘I suppose you know all this dreadful news,’ she said, with a comfortless composure. ‘Poor Hubert must have broken down under all this revolutionary persecution, and been just maddened into taking his own life. I don’t know whether you can do anything; or whether these horrible Bolsheviks can be made responsible for hounding him to death.’

‘I am terribly distressed, Lady Sand,’ said Father Brown. ‘And still, I must own, a little bewildered. You speak of persecution; do you think that anybody could hound him to death merely by pinning up that paper on the wall?’

‘I fancy,’ answered the lady, with a darkening brow, ‘that there were other persecutions besides the paper.’

‘It shows what mistakes one may make,’ said the priest sadly. ‘I never should have thought he would be so illogical as to die in order to avoid death.’

‘I know,’ she answered, gazing at him gravely. ‘I should never have believed it, if it hadn’t been written with his own hand.’

‘What?’ cried Father Brown, with a little jump like a rabbit that has been shot at.

‘Yes,’ said Lady Sand calmly. ‘He left a confession of suicide; so I fear there is no doubt about it.’ And she passed on up the slope alone, with all the inviolable isolation of the family ghost.

The spectacles of Father Brown were turned in mute inquiry to the eyeglasses of Mr Henry Sand. And the latter gentleman, after an instant’s hesitation, spoke again in his rather blind and plunging fashion: ‘Yes, you see, it seems pretty clear now what he did. He was always a great swimmer and used to come down in his dressing - gown every morning for a dip in the river. Well, he came down as usual, and left his dressing - gown on the bank; it’s lying there still. But he also left a message saying he was going for his last swim and then death, or something like that.’

‘Where did he leave the message?’ asked Father Brown.

‘He scrawled it on that tree there, overhanging the water, I suppose the last thing he took hold of; just below where the dressing - gown’s lying. Come and see for yourself.’

Father Brown ran down the last short slope to the shore and peered under the hanging tree, whose plumes were almost dipping in the stream. Sure enough, he saw on the smooth bark the words scratched conspicuously and unmistakably: ‘One more swim and then drowning. Good - bye. Hubert Sand.’ Father Brown’s gaze travelled slowly up the bank till it rested on a gorgeous rag of raiment, all red and yellow with gilded tassels. It was the dressing - gown and the priest picked it up and began to turn it over. Almost as he did so he was conscious that a figure had flashed across his field of vision; a tall dark figure that slipped from one clump of trees to another, as if following the trail of the vanishing lady. He had little doubt that it was the companion from whom she had lately parted. He had still less doubt that it was the dead man’s secretary, Mr Rupert Rae.

‘Of course, it might be a final afterthought to leave the message,’ said Father Brown, without looking up, his eye riveted on the red and gold garment. ‘We’ve all heard of love - messages written on trees; and I suppose there might be death - messages written on trees too.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t have anything in the pockets of his dressing - gown, I suppose,’ said young Sand. ‘And a man might naturally scratch his message on a tree if he had no pens, ink or paper.’

‘Sounds like French exercises,’ said the priest dismally. ‘But I wasn’t thinking of that.’ Then, after a silence, he said in a rather altered voice:

‘To tell the truth, I was thinking whether a man might not naturally scratch his message on a tree, even if he had stacks of pens, and quarts of ink, and reams of paper.’

Henry was looking at him with a rather startled air, his eyeglasses crooked on his pug - nose. ‘And what do you mean by that?’ he asked sharply.

‘Well,’ said Father Brown slowly, ‘I don’t exactly mean that postmen will carry letters in the form of logs, or that you will ever drop a line to a friend by putting a postage stamp on a pinetree. It would have to be a particular sort of position - in fact, it would have to be a particular sort of person, who really preferred this sort of arboreal correspondence. But, given the position and the person, I repeat what I said. He would still write on a tree, as the song says, if all the world were paper and all the sea were ink; if that river flowed with everlasting ink or all these woods were a forest of quills and fountain

• pens.’

It was evident that Sand felt something creepy about the priest’s fanciful imagery; whether because he found it incomprehensible or because he was beginning to comprehend.

‘You see,’ said Father Brown, turning the dressing - gown over slowly as he spoke, ‘a man isn’t expected to write his very best handwriting when he chips it on a tree. And if the man were not the man, if I make myself clear - Hullo!’

He was looking down at the red dressing - gown, and it seemed for the moment as if some of the red had come off on his finger; but both the faces turned towards it were already a shade paler.

‘Blood!’ said Father Brown; and for the instant there was a deadly stillness save for the melodious noises of the river.

Henry Sand cleared his throat and nose with noises that were by no means melodious. Then he said rather hoarsely: ‘Whose blood?’

‘Oh, mine,’ said Father Brown; but he did not smile.

A moment after he said: ‘There was a pin in this thing and I pricked myself. But I don’t think you quite appreciate the point … the point of the pin, I do’; and he sucked his finger like a child.

‘You see,’ he said after another silence, ‘the gown was folded up and pinned together; nobody could have unfolded it - at least without scratching himself. In plain words, Hubert Sand never wore this dressing

• gown. Any more than Hubert Sand ever wrote on that tree. Or drowned himself in that river.’

The pince - nez tilted on Henry’s inquiring nose fell off with a click; but he was otherwise motionless, as if rigid with surprise.

‘Which brings us back,’ went on Father Brown cheerfully, ‘to somebody’s taste for writing his private correspondence on trees, like Hiawatha and his picture - writing. Sand had all the time there was, before drowning himself. Why didn’t he leave a note for his wife like a sane man? Or, shall we say … Why didn’t the Other Man leave a note for the wife like a sane man? Because he would have had to forge the husband’s handwriting; always a tricky thing now that experts are so nosey about it. But nobody can be expected to imitate even his own handwriting, let alone somebody else’s when he carves capital letters in the bark of a tree. This is not a suicide, Mr Sand. If it’s anything at all, it’s a murder.’

The bracken and bushes of the undergrowth snapped and crackled as the big young man rose out of them like a leviathan, and stood lowering, with his thick neck thrust forward.

‘I’m no good at hiding things,’ he said, ‘and I half - suspected something like this - expected it, you might say, for a long time. To tell the truth, I could hardly be civil to the fellow - to either of them, for that matter.’

‘What exactly do you mean?’ asked the priest, looking him gravely full in the face.

‘I mean,’ said Henry Sand, ‘that you have shown me the murder and I think I could show you the murderers.’

Father Brown was silent and the other went on rather jerkily.

‘You said people sometimes wrote love - messages on trees. Well, as a fact, there are some of them on that tree; there are two sort of monograms twisted together up there under the leaves - I suppose you know that Lady Sand was the heiress of this place long before she married; and she knew that damned dandy of a secretary even in those days. I guess they used to meet here and write their vows upon the trysting - tree. They seem to have used the trysting - tree for another purpose later on. Sentiment, no doubt, or economy.’

‘They must be very horrible people,’ said Father Brown.

‘Haven’t there been any horrible people in history or the police - news?’ demanded Sand with some excitement. ‘Haven’t there been lovers who made love seem more horrible than hate? Don’t you know about Bothwell and all the bloody legends of such lovers?’

‘I know the legend of Bothwell,’ answered the priest. ‘I also know it to be quite legendary. But of course it’s true that husbands have been sometimes put away like that. By the way, where was he put away? I mean, where did they hide the body?’

‘I suppose they drowned him, or threw him in the water when he was dead,’ snorted the young man impatiently.

Father Brown blinked thoughtfully and then said: ‘A river is a good place to hide an imaginary body. It’s a rotten bad place to hide a real one. I mean, it’s easy to say you’ve thrown it in, because it might be washed away to sea. But if you really did throw it in, it’s about a hundred to one it wouldn’t; the chances of it going ashore somewhere are enormous. I think they must have had a better scheme for hiding the body than that - or the body would have been found by now. And if there were any marks of violence - ’

‘Oh, bother hiding the body,’ said Henry, with some irritation; ‘haven’t we witness enough in the writing on their own devilish tree?’

‘The body is the chief witness in every murder,’ answered the other. ‘The hiding of the body, nine times out of ten, is the practical problem to be solved.’

There was a silence; and Father Brown continued to turn over the red dressing - gown and spread it out on the shining grass of the sunny shore; he did not look up. But, for some time past he had been conscious that the whole landscape had been changed for him by the presence of a third party; standing as still as a statue in the garden.

‘By the way,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘how do you explain that little guy with the glass eye, who brought your poor uncle a letter yesterday? It seemed to me he was entirely altered by reading it; that’s why I wasn’t surprised at the suicide, when I thought it was a suicide. That chap was a rather low - down private detective, or I’m much mistaken.’

‘Why,’ said Henry in a hesitating manner, ‘why, he might have been - husbands do sometimes put on detectives in domestic tragedies like this, don’t they? I suppose he’d got the proofs of their intrigue; and so they

• ’

‘I shouldn’t talk too loud,’ said Father Brown, ‘because your detective is detecting us at this moment, from about a yard beyond those bushes.’

They looked up, and sure enough the goblin with the glass eye was fixing them with that disagreeable optic, looking all the more grotesque for standing among the white and waxen blooms of the classical garden.

Henry Sand scrambled to his feet again with a rapidity that seemed breathless for one of his bulk, and asked the man very angrily and abruptly what he was doing, at the same time telling him to clear out at once.

‘Lord Stanes,’ said the goblin of the garden, ‘would be much obliged if Father Brown would come up to the house and speak to him.’

Henry Sand turned away furiously; but the priest put down his fury to the dislike that was known to exist between him and the nobleman in question. As they mounted the slope, Father Brown paused a moment as if tracing patterns on the smooth tree - trunk, glanced upwards once at the darker and more hidden hieroglyph said to be a record of romance; and then stared at the wider and more sprawling letters of the confession, or supposed confession of suicide.

‘Do those letters remind you of anything?’ he asked. And when his sulky companion shook his head, he added: ‘They remind me of the writing on that placard that threatened him with the vengeance of the strikers.’

‘This is the hardest riddle and the queerest tale I have ever tackled,’ said Father Brown, a month later, as he sat opposite Lord Stanes in the recently furnished apartment of No. 188, the end flat which was the last to be finished before the interregnum of the industrial dispute and the transfer of work from the Trade Union. It was comfortably furnished; and Lord Stanes was presiding over grog and cigars, when the priest made his confession with a grimace. Lord Stanes had become rather surprisingly friendly, in a cool and casual way.

‘I know that is saying a good deal, with your record,’ said Stanes, ‘but certainly the detectives, including our seductive friend with the glass eye, don’t seem at all able to see the solution.’

Father Brown laid down his cigar and said carefully: ‘It isn’t that they can’t see the solution. It is that they can’t see the problem.’

‘Indeed,’ said the other, ‘perhaps I can’t see the problem either.’

‘The problem is unlike all other problems, for this reason,’ said Father Brown. ‘It seems as if the criminal deliberately did two different things, either of which might have been successful; but which, when done together, could only defeat each other. I am assuming, what I firmly believe, that the same murderer pinned up the proclamation threatening a sort of Bolshevik murder, and also wrote on the tree confessing to an ordinary suicide. Now you may say it is after all possible that the proclamation was a proletarian proclamation; that some extremist workmen wanted to kill their employer, and killed him. Even if that were true, it would still stick at the mystery of why they left, or why anybody left, a contrary trail of private self - destruction. But it certainly isn’t true. None of these workmen, however, bitter, would have done a thing like that. I know them pretty well; I know their leaders quite well. To suppose that people like Tom Bruce or Hogan would assassinate somebody they could go for in the newspapers, and damage in all sorts of different ways, is the sort of psychology that sensible people call lunacy. No; there was somebody, who was not an indignant workman, who first played the part of an indignant workman, and then played the part of a suicidal employer. But, in the name of wonder, why? If he thought he could pass it off smoothly as a suicide, why did he first spoil it all by publishing a threat of murder? You might say it was an afterthought to fix up the suicide story, as less provocative than the murder story. But it wasn’t less provocative after the murder story. He must have known he had already turned our thoughts towards murder, when it should have been his whole object to keep our thoughts away from it. If it was an after - thought, it was the after - thought of a very thoughtless person. And I have a notion that this assassin is a very thoughtful person. Can you make anything of it?’

‘No; but I see what you mean,’ said Stanes, ‘by saying that I didn’t even see the problem. It isn’t merely who killed Sand; it’s why anybody should accuse somebody else of killing Sand and then accuse Sand of killing himself.’

Father Brown’s face was knotted and the cigar was clenched in his teeth; the end of it plowed and darkened rhythmically like the signal of some burning pulse of the brain. Then he spoke as if to himself:

‘We’ve got to follow very closely and very clearly. It’s like separating threads of thought from each other; something like this. Because the murder charge really rather spoilt the suicide charge, he wouldn’t normally have made the murder charge. But he did make it; so he had some other reason for making it. It was so strong a reason that perhaps it reconciled him even to weakening his other line of defence; that it was a suicide. In other words, the murder charge wasn’t really a murder charge. I mean he wasn’t using it as a murder charge; he wasn’t doing it so as to shift to somebody else the guilt of murder; he was doing it for some other extraordinary reason of his own. His plan had to contain a proclamation that Sand would be murdered; whether it threw suspicion on other people or not. Somehow or other the mere proclamation itself was necessary. But why?’

He smoked and smouldered away with the same volcanic concentration for five minutes before he spoke again. ‘What could a murderous proclamation do, besides suggesting that the strikers were the murderers? What did it do? One thing is obvious; it inevitably did the opposite of what it said. It told Sand not to lock out his men; and it was perhaps the only thing in the world that would really have made him do it. You’ve got to think of the sort of man and the sort of reputation. When a man has been called a Strong Man in our silly sensational newspapers, when he is fondly regarded as a Sportsman by all the most distinguished asses in England, he simply can’t back down because he is threatened with a pistol. It would be like walking about at Ascot with a white feather stuck in his absurd white hat. It would break that inner idol or ideal of oneself, which every man not a downright dastard does really prefer to life. And Sand wasn’t a dastard; he was courageous; he was also impulsive. It acted instantly like a charm: his nephew, who had been more or less mixed up with the workmen, cried out instantly that the threat must be absolutely and instantly defied.’

‘Yes,’ said Lord Stanes, ‘I noticed that.’ They looked at each other for an instant, and then Stanes added carelessly: ‘So you think the thing the criminal wanted was…’

‘The Lock - out!’ cried the priest energetically. ‘The Strike or whatever you call it; the cessation of work, anyhow. He wanted the work to stop at once; perhaps the blacklegs to come in at once; certainly the Trade Unionists to go out at once. That is what he really wanted; God knows why. And he brought that off, I think, really without bothering much about its other implication of the existence of Bolshevist assassins. But then … then I think something went wrong. I’m only guessing and groping very slowly here; but the only explanation I can think of is that something began to draw attention to the real seat of the trouble; to the reason, whatever it was, of his wanting to bring the building to a halt. And then belatedly, desperately, and rather inconsistently, he tried to lay the other trail that led to the river, simply and solely because it led away from the flats.’

He looked up through his moonlike spectacles, absorbing all the quality of the background and furniture; the restrained luxury of a quiet man of the world; and contrasting it with the two suitcases with which its occupant had arrived so recently in a newly - finished and unfurnished flat. Then he said rather abruptly: ‘In short, the murderer was frightened of something or somebody in the flats. By the way, why did you come to live in the flats? … Also by the way, young Henry told me you made an early appointment with him when you moved in. Is that true?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Stanes. ‘I got the key from his uncle the night before. I’ve no notion why Henry came here that morning.’

‘Ah,’ said Father Brown, ‘then I think I have some notion of why he came … I thought you startled him by coming in just when he was coming out.’

‘And yet,’ said Stanes, looking across with a glitter in his grey - green eyes, ‘you do rather think that I also am a mystery.’

‘I think you are two mysteries,’ said Father Brown. ‘The first is why you originally retired from Sand’s business. The second is why you have since come back to live in Sand’s buildings.’

Stanes smoked reflectively, knocked out his ash, and rang a bell on the table before him. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said, ‘I will summon two more to the council. Jackson, the little detective you know of, will answer the bell; and I’ve asked Henry Sand to come in a little later.’

Father Brown rose from his seat, walked across the room and looked down frowning into the fire - place.

‘Meanwhile,’ continued Stanes, ‘I don’t mind answering both your questions. I left the Sand business because I was sure there was some hanky - panky in it and somebody was pinching all the money. I came back to it, and took this flat, because I wanted to watch for the real truth about old Sand’s death - on the spot.’

Father Brown faced round as the detective entered the room; he stood staring at the hearthrug and repeated: ‘On the spot.’

‘Mr Jackson will tell you,’ said Stanes, ‘that Sir Hubert commissioned him to find out who was the thief robbing the firm; and he brought a note of his discoveries the day before old Hubert disappeared.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, ‘and I know now where he disappeared to. I know where the body is.’

‘Do you mean -?’ began his host hastily.

‘It is here,’ said Father Brown, and stamped on the hearthrug. ‘Here, under the elegant Persian rug in this cosy and comfortable room.’

‘Where in the world did you find that?’

‘I’ve just remembered,’ said Father Brown, ‘that I found it in my sleep.’

He closed his eyes as if trying to picture a dream, and went on dreamily:

‘This is a murder story turning on the problem of How to Hide the Body; and I found it in my sleep. I was always woken up every morning by hammering from this building. On that morning I half - woke up, went to sleep again and woke once more, expecting to find it late; but it wasn’t. Why? Because there had been hammering that morning, though all the usual work had stopped; short, hurried hammering in the small hours before dawn. Automatically a man sleeping stirs at such a familiar sound. But he goes to sleep again, because the usual sound is not at the usual hour. Now why did a certain secret criminal want all the work to cease suddenly; and only new workers come in? Because, if the old workers had come in next day, they would have found a new piece of work done in the night. The old workers would have known where they left off; and they would have found the whole flooring of this room already nailed down. Nailed down by a man who knew how to do it; haying mixed a good deal with the workmen and learned their ways.’

As he spoke, the door was pushed open and a head poked in with a thrusting motion; a small head at the end of a thick neck and a face that blinked at them through glasses.

‘Henry Sand said,’ observed Father Brown, staring at the ceiling, ‘that he was no good at hiding things. But I think he did himself an injustice.’

Henry Sand turned and moved swiftly away down the corridor.

‘He not only hid his thefts from the firm quite successfully for years,’ went on the priest with an air of abstraction, ‘but when his uncle discovered them, he hid his uncle’s corpse in an entirely new and original manner.’

At the same instant Stanes again rang a bell, with a long strident steady ringing; and the little man with the glass eye was propelled or shot along the corridor after the fugitive, with something of the rotatory motion of a mechanical figure in a zoetrope. At the same moment, Father Brown looked out of the window, leaning over a small balcony, and saw five or six men start from behind bushes and railings in the street below and spread out equally mechanically like a fan or net; opening out after the fugitive who had shot like a bullet out of the front door. Father Brown saw only the pattern of the story; which had never strayed from that room; where Henry had strangled Hubert and hid his body under impenetrable flooring, stopping the whole work on the building to do it. A pin - prick had started his own suspicions; but only to tell him he had been led down the long loop of a lie. The point of the pin was that it was pointless.

He fancied he understood Stanes at last, and he liked to collect queer people who were difficult to understand. He realized that this tired gentleman, whom he had once accused of having green blood, had indeed a sort of cold green flame of conscientiousness or conventional honour, that had made him first shift out of a shady business, and then feel ashamed of having shifted it on to others; and come back as a bored laborious detective; pitching his camp on the very spot where the corpse had been buried; so that the murderer, finding him sniffing so near the corpse, had wildly staged the alternative drama of the dressing - gown and the drowned man. All that was plain enough, but, before he withdrew his head from the night air and the stars. Father Brown threw one glance upwards at the vast black bulk of the cyclopean building heaved far up into the night, and remembered Egypt and Babylon, and all that is at once eternal and ephemeral in the work of man.

‘I was right in what I said first of all,’ he said. ‘It reminds one of Coppee’s poem about the Pharaoh and the Pyramid. This house is supposed to be a hundred houses; and yet the whole mountain of building is only one man’s tomb.’

EIGHT: The Insoluble Problem

This queer incident, in some ways perhaps the queerest of the many that came his way, happened to Father Brown at the time when his French friend Flambeau had retired from the profession of crime and had entered with great energy and success on the profession of crime investigator. It happened that both as a thief and a thief – taker, Flambeau had rather specialized in the matter of jewel thefts, on which he was admitted to be an expert, both in the matter of identifying jewels and the equally practical matter of identifying jewel - thieves. And it was in connection with his special knowledge of this subject, and a special commission which it had won for him, that he rang up his friend the priest on the particular morning on which this story begins.

Father Brown was delighted to hear the voice of his old friend, even on the telephone; but in a general way, and especially at that particular moment, Father Brown was not very fond of the telephone. He was one who preferred to watch people’s faces and feel social atmospheres, and he knew well that without these things, verbal messages are apt to be very misleading, especially from total strangers. And it seemed as if, on that particular morning, a swarm of total strangers had been buzzing in his ear with more or less unenlightening verbal messages; the telephone seemed to be possessed of a demon of triviality. Perhaps the most distinctive voice was one which asked him whether he did not issue regular permits for murder and theft upon the payment of a regular tariff hung up in his church; and as the stranger, on being informed that this was not the case, concluded the colloquy with a hollow laugh, it may be presumed that he remained unconvinced. Then an agitated, rather inconsequent female voice rang up requesting him to come round at once to a certain hotel he had heard of some forty - five miles on the road to a neighbouring cathedral town; the request being immediately followed by a contradiction in the same voice, more agitated and yet more inconsequent, telling him that it did not matter and that he was not wanted after all. Then came an interlude of a Press agency asking him if he had anything to say on what a Film Actress had said about Moustaches for Men; and finally yet a third return of the agitated and inconsequent lady at the hotel, saying that he was wanted, after all. He vaguely supposed that this marked some of the hesitations and panics not unknown among those who are vaguely veering in the direction of Instruction, but he confessed to a considerable relief when the voice of Flambeau wound up the series with a hearty threat of immediately turning up for breakfast.

Father Brown very much preferred to talk to a friend sitting comfortably over a pipe, but it soon appeared that his visitor was on the warpath and full of energy, having every intention of carrying off the little priest captive on some important expedition of his own. It was true that there was a special circumstance involved which might be supposed to claim the priest’s attention. Flambeau had figured several times of late as successfully thwarting a theft of famous precious stones; he had torn the tiara of the Duchess of Dulwich out of the very hand of the bandit as he bolted through the garden. He laid so ingenious a trap for the criminal who planned to carry off the celebrated Sapphire Necklace that the artist in question actually carried off the copy which he had himself planned to leave as a substitute.

Such were doubtless the reasons that had led to his being specially summoned to guard the delivery of a rather different sort of treasure; perhaps even more valuable in its mere materials, but possessing also another sort of value. A world - famous reliquary, supposed to contain a relic of St. Dorothy the martyr, was to be delivered at the Catholic monastery in a cathedral town; and one of the most famous of international jewel - thieves was supposed to have an eye on it; or rather presumably on the gold and rubies of its setting, rather than its purely hagiological importance. Perhaps there was something in this association of ideas which made Flambeau feel that the priest would be a particularly appropriate companion in his adventure; but anyhow, he descended on him, breathing fire and ambition and very voluble about his plans for preventing the theft.

Flambeau indeed bestrode the priest’s hearth gigantically and in the old swaggering musketeer attitude, twirling his great moustaches.

‘You can’t,’ he cried, referring to the sixty - mile road to Casterbury. ‘You can’t allow a profane robbery like that to happen under your very nose.’

The relic was not to reach the monastery till the evening; and there was no need for its defenders to arrive earlier; for indeed a motor - journey would take them the greater part of the day. Moreover, Father Brown casually remarked that there was an inn on the road, at which he would prefer to lunch, as he had been already asked to look in there as soon as was convenient.

As they drove along through a densely wooded but sparsely inhabited landscape, in which inns and all other buildings seemed to grow rarer and rarer, the daylight began to take on the character of a stormy twilight even in the heat of noon; and dark purple clouds gathered over dark grey forests. As is common under the lurid quietude of that kind of light, what colour there was in the landscape gained a sort of secretive glow which is not found in objects under the full sunlight; and ragged red leaves or golden or orange fungi seemed to burn with a dark fire of their own. Under such a half - light they came to a break in the woods like a great rent in a grey wall, and saw beyond, standing above the gap, the tall and rather outlandish - looking inn that bore the name of the Green Dragon.

The two old companions had often arrived together at inns and other human habitations, and found a somewhat singular state of things there; but the signs of singularity had seldom manifested themselves so early. For while their car was still some hundreds of yards from the dark green door, which matched the dark green shutters of the high and narrow building, the door was thrown open with violence and a woman with a wild mop of red hair rushed to meet them, as if she were ready to board the car in full career. Flambeau brought the car to a standstill but almost before he had done so, she thrust her white and tragic face into the window, crying:

‘Are you Father Brown?’ and then almost in the same breath; ‘who is this man?’

‘This gentleman’s name is Flambeau,’ said Father Brown in a tranquil manner, ‘and what can I do for you?’

‘Come into the inn,’ she said, with extraordinary abruptness even under the circumstances. ‘There’s been a murder done.’

They got out of the car in silence and followed her to the dark green door which opened inwards on a sort of dark green alley, formed of stakes and wooden pillars, wreathed with vine and ivy, showing square leaves of black and red and many sombre colours. This again led through an inner door into a sort of large parlour hung with rusty trophies of Cavalier arms, of which the furniture seemed to be antiquated and also in great confusion, like the inside of a lumber - room. They were quite startled for the moment; for it seemed as if one large piece of lumber rose and moved towards them; so dusty and shabby and ungainly was the man who thus abandoned what seemed like a state of permanent immobility.

Strangely enough, the man seemed to have a certain agility of politeness, when once he did move; even if it suggested the wooden joints of a courtly step - ladder or an obsequious towel - horse. Both Flambeau and Father Brown felt that they had hardly ever clapped eyes on a man who was so difficult to place. He was not what is called a gentleman; yet he had something of the dusty refinement of a scholar; there was something faintly disreputable or declasse about him; and yet the smell of him was rather bookish than Bohemian. He was thin and pale, with a pointed nose and a dark pointed beard; his brow was bald, but his hair behind long and lank and stringy; and the expression of his eyes was almost entirely masked by a pair of blue spectacles. Father Brown felt that he had met something of the sort somewhere, and a long time ago; but he could no longer put a name to it. The lumber he sat among was largely literary lumber; especially bundles of seventeenth - century pamphlets.

‘Do I understand the lady to say,’ asked Flambeau gravely, ‘that there is a murder here?’

The lady nodded her red ragged head rather impatiently; except for those flaming elf - locks she had lost some of her look of wildness; her dark dress was of a certain dignity and neatness; her features were strong and handsome; and there was something about her suggesting that double strength of body and mind which makes women powerful, particularly in contrast with men like the man in blue spectacles. Nevertheless, it was he who gave the only articulate answer, intervening with a certain antic gallantry.

‘It is true that my unfortunate sister - in - law,’ he explained, ‘has almost this moment suffered a most appalling shock which we should all have desired to spare her. I only wish that I myself had made the discovery and suffered only the further distress of bringing the terrible news. Unfortunately it was Mrs Flood herself who found her aged grandfather, long sick and bedridden in this hotel, actually dead in the garden; in circumstances which point only too plainly to violence and assault. Curious circumstances, I may say, very curious circumstances indeed.’ And he coughed slightly, as if apologizing for them.

Flambeau bowed to the lady and expressed his sincere sympathies; then he said to the man: ‘I think you said, sir, that you are Mrs Flood’s brother - in - law.’

‘I am Dr Oscar Flood,’ replied the other. ‘My brother, this lady’s husband, is at present away on the Continent on business, and she is running the hotel. Her grandfather was partially paralysed and very far advanced in years. He was never known to leave his bedroom; so that really these extraordinary circumstances …’

‘Have you sent for a doctor or the police?’ asked Flambeau.

‘Yes,’ replied Dr Flood, ‘we rang up after making the dreadful discovery; but they can hardly be here for some hours. This roadhouse stands so very remote. It is only used by people going to Casterbury or even beyond. So we thought we might ask for your valuable assistance until - ’

‘If we are to be of any assistance,’ said Father Brown, interrupting in too abstracted a manner to seem uncivil, ‘I should say we had better go and look at the circumstances at once.’

He stepped almost mechanically towards the door; and almost ran into a man who was shouldering his way in; a big, heavy young man with dark hair unbrushed and untidy, who would nevertheless have been rather handsome save for a slight disfigurement of one eye, which gave him rather a sinister appearance.

‘What the devil are you doing?’ he blurted out, ‘telling every Tom, Dick and Harry - at least you ought to wait for the police.’

‘I will be answerable to the police,’ said Flambeau with a certain magnificence, and a sudden air of having taken command of everything. He advanced to the doorway, and as he was much bigger than the big young man, and his moustaches were as formidable as the horns of a Spanish bull, the big young man backed before him and had an inconsequent air of being thrown out and left behind, as the group swept out into the garden and up the flagged path towards the mulberry plantation. Only Flambeau heard the little priest say to the doctor: ‘He doesn’t seem to love us really, does he? By the way, who is he?’

‘His name is Dunn,’ said the doctor, with a certain restraint of manner. ‘My sister - in - law gave him the job of managing the garden, because he lost an eye in the War.’

As they went through the mulberry bushes, the landscape of the garden presented that rich yet ominous effect which is found when the land is actually brighter than the sky. In the broken sunlight from behind, the tree - tops in front of them stood up like pale green flames against a sky steadily blackening with storm, through every shade of purple and violet. The same light struck strips of the lawn and garden beds; and whatever it illuminated seemed more mysteriously sombre and secret for the light. The garden bed was dotted with tulips that looked like drops of dark blood, and some of which one might have sworn were truly black; and the line ended appropriately with a tulip tree; which Father Brown was disposed, if partly by some confused memory, to identify with what is commonly called the Judas tree. What assisted the association was the fact that there was hanging from one of the branches, like a dried fruit, the dry, thin body of an old man, with a long beard that wagged grotesquely in the wind.

There lay on it something more than the horror of darkness, the horror of sunlight; for the fitful sun painted tree and man in gay colours like a stage property; the tree was in flower and the corpse was hung with a faded peacock - green dressing - gown, and wore on its wagging head a scarlet smoking - cap. Also it had red bedroom - slippers, one of which had fallen off and lay on the grass like a blot of blood.

But neither Flambeau or Father Brown was looking at these things as yet. They were both staring at a strange object that seemed to stick out of the middle of the dead man’s shrunken figure; and which they gradually perceived to be the black but rather rusty iron hilt of a seventeenth - century sword, which had completely transfixed the body. They both remained almost motionless as they gazed at it; until the restless Dr Flood seemed to grow quite impatient with their stolidity.

‘What puzzles me most,’ he said, nervously snapping his fingers, ‘is the actual state of the body. And yet it has given me an idea already.’

Flambeau had stepped up to the tree and was studying the sword - hilt through an eye - glass. But for some odd reason, it was at that very instant that the priest in sheer perversity spun round like a teetotum, turned his back on the corpse, and looked peeringly in the very opposite direction. He was just in time to see the red head of Mrs Flood at the remote end of the garden, turned towards a dark young man, too dim with distance to be identified, who was at that moment mounting a motor - bicycle; who vanished, leaving behind him only the dying din of that vehicle. Then the woman turned and began to walk towards them across the garden, just as Father Brown turned also and began a careful inspection of the sword - hilt and the hanging corpse.

‘I understand you only found him about half an hour ago,’ said Flambeau. ‘Was there anybody about here just before that? I mean anybody in his bedroom, or that part of the house, or this part of the garden - say for an hour beforehand?’

‘No,’ said the doctor with precision. ‘That is the very tragic accident. My sister - in - law was in the pantry, which is a sort of out - house on the other side; this man Dunn was in the kitchen - garden, which is also in that direction; and I myself was poking about among the books, in a room just behind the one you found me in. There are two female servants, but one had gone to the post and the other was in the attic.’

‘And were any of these people,’ asked Flambeau, very quietly, ‘I say any of these people, at all on bad terms with the poor old gentleman?’

‘He was the object of almost universal affection,’ replied the doctor solemnly. ‘If there were any misunderstandings, they were mild and of a sort common in modern times. The old man was attached to the old religious habits; and perhaps his daughter and son - in - law had rather wider views. All that can have had nothing to do with a ghastly and fantastic assassination like this.’

‘It depends on how wide the modern views were,’ said Father Brown, ‘or how narrow.’

At this moment they heard Mrs Flood hallooing across the garden as she came, and calling her brother - in - law to her with a certain impatience. He hurried towards her and was soon out of earshot; but as he went he waved his hand apologetically and then pointed with a long finger to the ground.

‘You will find the footprints very intriguing,’ he said; with the same strange air, as of a funereal showman.

The two amateur detectives looked across at each other. ‘I find several other things intriguing,’ said Flambeau.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the priest, staring rather foolishly at the grass.

‘I was wondering,’ said Flambeau, ‘why they should hang a man by the neck till he was dead, and then take the trouble to stick him with a sword.’

‘And I was wondering,’ said Father Brown, ‘why they should kill a man with a sword thrust through his heart, and then take the trouble to hang him by the neck.’

‘Oh, you are simply being contrary,’ protested his friend. ‘I can see at a glance that they didn’t stab him alive. The body would have bled more and the wound wouldn’t have closed like that.’

‘And I could see at a glance,’ said Father Brown, peering up very awkwardly, with his short stature and short sight, ‘that they didn’t hang him alive. If you’ll look at the knot in the noose, you will see it’s tied so clumsily that a twist of rope holds it away from the neck, so that it couldn’t throttle a man at all. He was dead before they put the rope on him; and he was dead before they put the sword in him. And how was he really killed?’

‘I think,’ remarked the other, ‘that we’d better go back to the house and have a look at his bedroom - and other things.’

‘So we will,’ said Father Brown. ‘But among other things perhaps we had better have a look at these footprints. Better begin at the other end, I think, by his window. Well, there are no footprints on the paved path, as there might be; but then again there mightn’t be. Well, here is the lawn just under his bedroom window. And here are his footprints plain enough.’

He blinked ominously at the footprints; and then began carefully retracing his path towards the tree, every now and then ducking in an undignified manner to look at something on the ground. Eventually he returned to Flambeau and said in a chatty manner:

‘Well, do you know the story that is written there very plainly? Though it’s not exactly a plain story.’

‘I wouldn’t be content to call it plain,’ said Flambeau. ‘I should call it quite ugly - ’

‘Well,’ said Father Brown, ‘the story that is stamped quite plainly on the earth, with exact moulds of the old man’s slippers, is this. The aged paralytic leapt from the window and ran down the beds parallel to the path, quite eager for all the fun of being strangled and stabbed; so eager that he hopped on one leg out of sheer lightheartedness; and even occasionally turned cartwheels - ’

‘Stop!’ cried Flambeau, angrily. ‘What the hell is all this hellish pantomime?’

Father Brown merely raised his eyebrows and gestured mildly towards the hieroglyphs in the dust. ‘About half the way there’s only the mark of one slipper; and in some places the mark of a hand planted all by itself.’

‘Couldn’t he have limped and then fallen?’ asked Flambeau.

Father Brown shook his head. ‘At least he’d have tried to use his hands and feet, or knees and elbows, in getting up. There are no other marks there of any kind. Of course the flagged path is quite near, and there are no marks on that; though there might be on the soil between the cracks; it’s a crazy pavement.’

‘By God, it’s a crazy pavement; and a crazy garden; and a crazy story!’ And Flambeau looked gloomily across the gloomy and storm - stricken garden, across which the crooked patchwork paths did indeed give a queer aptness to the quaint old English adjective.

‘And now,’ said Father Brown, ‘let us go up and look at his room.’ They went in by a door not far from the bedroom window; and the priest paused a moment to look at an ordinary garden broomstick, for sweeping up leaves, that was leaning against the wall. ‘Do you see that?’

‘It’s a broomstick,’ said Flambeau, with solid irony.

‘It’s a blunder,’ said Father Brown; ‘the first blunder that I’ve seen in this curious plot.’

They mounted the stairs and entered the old man’s bedroom; and a glance at it made fairly clear the main facts, both about the foundation and disunion of the family. Father Brown had felt from the first that he was in what was, or had been, a Catholic household; but was, at least partly, inhabited by lapsed or very loose Catholics. The pictures and images in the grandfather’s room made it clear that what positive piety remained had been practically confined to him; and that his kindred had, for some reason or other, gone Pagan. But he agreed that this was a hopelessly inadequate explanation even of an ordinary murder; let alone such a very extraordinary murder as this. ‘Hang it all,’ he muttered, ‘the murder is really the least extra - ordinary part of it.’ And even as he used the chance phrase, a slow light began to dawn upon his face.

Flambeau had seated himself on a chair by the little table which stood beside the dead man’s bed. He was frowning thoughtfully at three or four white pills or pellets that lay in a small tray beside a bottle of water.

‘The murderer or murderess,’ said Flambeau, ‘had some incomprehensible reason or other for wanting us to think the dead man was strangled or stabbed or both. He was not strangled or stabbed or anything of the kind. Why did they want to suggest it? The most logical explanation is that he died in some particular way which would, in itself, suggest a connection with some particular person. Suppose, for instance, he was poisoned. And suppose somebody is involved who would naturally look more like a poisoner than anybody else.’

‘After all,’ said Father Brown softly, ‘our friend in the blue spectacles is a doctor.’

‘I’m going to examine these pills pretty carefully,’ went on Flambeau. ‘I don’t want to lose them, though. They look as if they were soluble in water.’

‘It may take you some time to do anything scientific with them,’ said the priest, ‘and the police doctor may be here before that. So I should certainly advise you not to lose them. That is, if you are going to wait for the police doctor.’

‘I am going to stay here till I have solved this problem,’ said Flambeau.

‘Then you will stay here for ever,’ said Father Brown, looking calmly out of the window. ‘I don’t think I shall stay in this room, anyhow.’

‘Do you mean that I shan’t solve the problem?’ asked his friend. ‘Why shouldn’t I solve the problem?’

‘Because it isn’t soluble in water. No, nor in blood,’ said the priest; and he went down the dark stairs into the darkening garden. There he saw again what he had already seen from the window.

The heat and weight and obscurity of the thunderous sky seemed to be pressing yet more closely on the landscape; the clouds had conquered the sun which, above, in a narrowing clearance, stood up paler than the moon. There was a thrill of thunder in the air, but now no more stirring of wind or breeze; and even the colours of the garden seemed only like richer shades of darkness. But one colour still glowed with a certain dusky vividness; and that was the red hair of the woman of that house, who was standing with a sort of rigidity, staring, with her hands thrust up into her hair. That scene of eclipse, with something deeper in his own doubts about its significance, brought to the surface the memory of haunting and mystical lines; and he found himself murmuring: ‘A secret spot, as savage and enchanted as e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted by woman wailing for her demon lover.’ His muttering became more agitated. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners … that’s what it is; that’s terribly like what it is; woman wailing for her demon lover.’

He was hesitant and almost shaky as he approached the woman; but he spoke with his common composure. He was gazing at her very steadily, as he told her earnestly that she must not be morbid because of the mere accidental accessories of the tragedy, with all their mad ugliness. ‘The pictures in your grandfather’s room were truer to him than that ugly picture that we saw,’ he said gravely. ‘Something tells me he was a good man; and it does not matter what his murderers did with his body.’

‘Oh, I am sick of his holy pictures and statues!’ she said, turning her head away. ‘Why don’t they defend themselves, if they are what you say they are? But rioters can knock off the Blessed Virgin’s head and nothing happens to them. Oh, what’s the good? You can’t blame us, you daren’t blame us, if we’ve found out that Man is stronger than God.’

‘Surely,’ said Father Brown very gently, ‘it is not generous to make even God’s patience with us a point against Him.’

‘God may be patient and Man impatient,’ she answered, ‘and suppose we like the impatience better. You call it sacrilege; but you can’t stop it.’

Father Brown gave a curious little jump. ‘Sacrilege!’ he said; and suddenly turned back to the doorway with a new brisk air of decision. At the same moment Flambeau appeared in the doorway, pale with excitement, with a screw of paper in his hands. Father Brown had already opened his mouth to speak, but his impetuous friend spoke before him.

‘I’m on the track at last!’ cried Flambeau. ‘These pills look the same, but they’re really different. And do you know that, at the very moment I spotted them, that one - eyed brute of a gardener thrust his white face into the room; and he was carrying a horse - pistol. I knocked it out of his hand and threw him down the stairs, but I begin to understand everything. If I stay here another hour or two, I shall finish my job.’

‘Then you will not finish it,’ said the priest, with a ring in his voice very rare in him indeed. ‘We shall not stay here another hour. We shall not stay here another minute. We must leave this place at once!’

‘What!’ cried the astounded Flambeau. ‘Just when we are getting near the truth! Why, you can tell that we’re getting near the truth because they are afraid of us.’

Father Brown looked at him with a stony and inscrutable face, and said: ‘They are not afraid of us when we are here. They will only be afraid of us when we are not here.’

They had both become conscious that the rather fidgety figure of Dr Flood was hovering in the lurid haze; now it precipitated itself forward with the wildest gestures.

‘Stop! Listen!’ cried the agitated doctor. ‘I have discovered the truth!’

‘Then you can explain it to your own police,’ said Father Brown, briefly. ‘They ought to be coming soon. But we must be going.’

The doctor seemed thrown into a whirlpool of emotions, eventually rising to the surface again with a despairing cry. He spread out his arms like a cross, barring their way.

‘Be it so!’ he cried. ‘I will not deceive you now, by saying I have discovered the truth. I will only confess the truth.’

‘Then you can confess it to your own priest,’ said Father Brown, and strode towards the garden gate, followed by his staring friend. Before he reached the gate, another figure had rushed athwart him like the wind; and Dunn the gardener was shouting at him some unintelligible derision at detectives who were running away from their job. Then the priest ducked just in time to dodge a blow from the horse - pistol, wielded like a club. But Dunn was just not in time to dodge a blow from the fist of Flambeau, which was like the club of Hercules. The two left Mr Dunn spread flat behind them on the path, and, passing out of the gate, went out and got into their car in silence. Flambeau only asked one brief question and Father Brown only answered: ‘Casterbury.’

At last, after a long silence, the priest observed: ‘I could almost believe the storm belonged only to that garden, and came out of a storm in the soul.’

‘My friend,’ said Flambeau. ‘I have known you a long time, and when you show certain signs of certainty, I follow your lead. But I hope you are not going to tell me that you took me away from that fascinating job, because you did not like the atmosphere.’

‘Well, it was certainly a terrible atmosphere,’ replied Father Brown, calmly. ‘Dreadful and passionate and oppressive. And the most dreadful thing about it was this - that there was no hate in it at all.’

‘Somebody,’ suggested Flambeau, ‘seems to have had a slight dislike of grandpapa.’

‘Nobody had any dislike of anybody,’ said Father Brown with a groan. ‘That was the dreadful thing in that darkness. It was love.’

‘Curious way of expressing love - to strangle somebody and stick him with a sword,’ observed the other.

‘It was love,’ repeated the priest, ‘and it filled the house with terror.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ protested Flambeau, ‘that that beautiful woman is in love with that spider in spectacles.’

‘No,’ said Father Brown and groaned again. ‘She is in love with her husband. It is ghastly.’

‘It is a state of things that I have often heard you recommend,’ replied Flambeau. ‘You cannot call that lawless love.’

‘Not lawless in that sense,’ answered Father Brown; then he turned sharply on his elbow and spoke with a new warmth: ‘Do you think I don’t know that the love of a man and a woman was the first command of God and is glorious for ever? Are you one of those idiots who think we don’t admire love and marriage? Do I need to be told of the Garden of Eden or the wine of Cana? It is just because the strength in the thing was the strength of God, that it rages with that awful energy even when it breaks loose from God. When the Garden becomes a jungle, but still a glorious jungle; when the second fermentation turns the wine of Cana into the vinegar of Calvary. Do you think I don’t know all that?’

‘I’m sure you do,’ said Flambeau, ‘but I don’t yet know much about my problem of the murder.’

‘The murder cannot be solved,’ said Father Brown.

‘And why not?’ demanded his friend.

‘Because there is no murder to solve,’ said Father Brown.

Flambeau was silent with sheer surprise; and it was his friend who resumed in a quiet tone:

‘I’ll tell you a curious thing. I talked with that woman when she was wild with grief; but she never said anything about the murder. She never mentioned murder, or even alluded to murder. What she did mention repeatedly was sacrilege.’ Then, with another jerk of verbal disconnection, he added: ‘Have you ever heard of Tiger Tyrone?’

‘Haven’t I!’ cried Flambeau. ‘Why, that’s the very man who’s supposed to be after the reliquary, and whom I’ve been commissioned specially to circumvent. He’s the most violent and daring gangster who ever visited this country; Irish, of course, but the sort that goes quite crazily anti - clerical. Perhaps he’s dabbled in a little diabolism in these secret societies; anyhow, he has a macabre taste for playing all sorts of wild tricks that look wickeder than they are. Otherwise he’s not the wickedest; he seldom kills, and never for cruelty; but he loves doing anything to shock people, especially his own people; robbing churches or digging up skeletons or what not.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, ‘it all fits in. I ought to have seen it all long before.’

‘I don’t see how we could have seen anything, after only an hour’s investigation,’ said the detective defensively.

‘I ought to have seen it before there was anything to investigate,’ said the priest. ‘I ought to have known it before you arrived this morning.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘It only shows how wrong voices sound on the telephone,’ said Father Brown reflectively. ‘I heard all three stages of the thing this morning; and I thought they were trifles. First, a woman rang me up and asked me to go to that inn as soon as possible. What did that mean? Of course it meant that the old grandfather was dying. Then she rang up to say that I needn’t go, after all. What did that mean? Of course it meant that the old grandfather was dead. He had died quite peaceably in his bed; probably heart failure from sheer old age. And then she rang up a third time and said I was to go, after all. What did that mean? Ah, that is rather more interesting!’

He went on after a moment’s pause: ‘Tiger Tyrone, whose wife worships him, took hold of one of his mad ideas, and yet it was a crafty idea, too. He had just heard that you were tracking him down, that you knew him and his methods and were coming to save the reliquary; he may have heard that I have sometimes been of some assistance. He wanted to stop us on the road; and his trick for doing it was to stage a murder. It was a pretty horrible thing to do; but it wasn’t a murder. Probably he bullied his wife with an air of brutal common sense, saying he could only escape penal servitude by using a dead body that couldn’t suffer anything from such use. Anyhow, his wife would do anything for him; but she felt all the unnatural hideousness of that hanging masquerade; and that’s why she talked about sacrilege. She was thinking of the desecration of the relic; but also of the desecration of the death - bed. The brother’s one of those shoddy “scientific” rebels who tinker with dud bombs; an idealist run to seed. But he’s devoted to Tiger; and so is the gardener. Perhaps it’s a point in his favour that so many people seem devoted to him.

‘There was one little point that set me guessing very early. Among the old books the doctor was turning over, was a bundle of seventeeth - century pamphlets; and I caught one title: True Declaration of the Trial and Execution of My Lord Stafford. Now Stafford was executed in the Popish Plot business, which began with one of history’s detective stories; the death of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey. Godfrey was found dead in a ditch, and part of the mystery was that he had marks of strangulation, but was also transfixed with his own sword. I thought at once that somebody in the house might have got the idea from here. But he couldn’t have wanted it as a way of committing a murder. He can only have wanted it as a way of creating a mystery. Then I saw that this applied to all the other outrageous details. They were devilish enough; but it wasn’t mere devilry; there was a rag of excuse; because they had to make the mystery as contradictory and complicated as possible, to make sure that we should be a long time solving it - or rather seeing through it. So they dragged the poor old man off his deathbed and made the corpse hop and turn cartwheels and do everything that it couldn’t have done. They had to give us an Insoluble Problem. They swept their own tracks off the path, leaving the broom. Fortunately we did see through it in time.’

‘You saw through it in time,’ said Flambeau. ‘I might have lingered a little longer over the second trail they left, sprinkled with assorted pills.’

‘Well, anyhow, we got away,’ said Father Brown, comfortably.

‘And that, I presume,’ said Flambeau, ‘is the reason I am driving at this rate along the road to Casterbury.’

That night in the monastery and church at Casterbury there were events calculated to stagger monastic seclusion. The reliquary of St Dorothy, in a casket gorgeous with gold and rubies, was temporarily placed in a side room near the chapel of the monastery, to be brought in with a procession for a special service at the end of Benediction. It was guarded for the moment by one monk, who watched it in a tense and vigilant manner; for he and his brethren knew all about the shadow of peril from the prowling of Tiger Tyrone. Thus it was that the monk was on his feet in a flash, when he saw one of the low - latticed windows beginning to open and a dark object drawling like a black serpent through the crack. Rushing across, he gripped it and found it was the arm and sleeve of a man, terminating with a handsome cuff and a smart dark - grey glove. Laying hold of it, he shouted for help, and even as he did so, a man darted into the room through the door behind his back and snatched the casket he had left behind him on the table. Almost at the same instant, the arm wedged in the window came away in his hand, and he stood holding the stuffed limb of a dummy.

Tiger Tyron had played that trick before, but to the monk it was a novelty. Fortunately, there was at least one person to whom the Tiger’s tricks were not a novelty; and that person appeared with militant moustaches, gigantically framed in the doorway, at the very moment when the Tiger turned to escape by it. Flambeau and Tiger Tyrone looked at each other with steady eyes and exchanged something that was almost like a military salute.

Meanwhile Father Brown had slipped into the chapel, to say a prayer for several persons involved in these unseemly events. But he was rather smiling than otherwise, and, to tell the truth, he was not by any means hopeless about Mr Tyrone and his deplorable family; but rather more hopeful than he was for many more respectable people. Then his thoughts widened with the grander perspectives of the place and the occasion. Against black and green marbles at the end of the rather rococo chapel, the dark - red vestments of the festival of a martyr were in their turn a background for a fierier red; a red like red - hot coals; the rubies of the reliquary; the roses of St Dorothy. And he had again a thought to throw back to the strange events of that day, and the woman who had shuddered at the sacrilege she had helped. After all, he thought, St Dorothy also had a Pagan lover; but he had not dominated her or destroyed her faith. She had died free and for the truth; and then had sent him roses from Paradise.

He raised his eyes and saw through the veil of incense smoke and of twinkling lights that Benediction was drawing to its end while the procession waited. The sense of accumulated riches of time and tradition pressed past him like a crowd moving in rank after rank, through unending centuries; and high above them all, like a garland of unfading flames, like the sun of our mortal midnight, the great monstrance blazed against the darkness of the vaulted shadows, as it blazed against the black enigma of the universe. For some are convinced that this enigma also is an Insoluble Problem. And others have equal certitude that it has but one solution.

NINE: The Vampire of the Village

At the twist of a path in the hills, where two poplars stood up like pyramids dwarfing the tiny village of Potter’s Pond, a mere huddle of houses, there once walked a man in a costume of a very conspicuous cut and colour, wearing a vivid magenta coat and a white hat tilted upon black ambrosial curls, which ended with a sort of Byronic flourish of whisker.

The riddle of why he was wearing clothes of such fantastic antiquity, yet wearing them with an air of fashion and even swagger, was but one of the many riddles that were eventually solved in solving the mystery of his fate. The point here is that when he had passed the poplars he seemed to have vanished; as if he had faded into the wan and widening dawn or been blown away upon the wind of morning.

It was only about a week afterwards that his body was found a quarter of a mile away, broken upon the steep rockeries of a terraced garden leading up to a gaunt and shuttered house called The Grange. Just before he had vanished, he had been accidentally overheard apparently quarrelling with some bystanders, and especially abusing their village as ‘a wretched little hamlet’; and it was supposed that he had aroused some extreme passions of local patriotism and eventually been their victim. At least the local doctor testified that the skull had suffered a crushing blow that might have caused death, through probably only inflicted with some sort of club or cudgel. This fitted in well enough with the notion of an attack by rather savage yokels. But nobody ever found any means of tracing any particular yokel; and the inquest returned a verdict of murder by some persons unknown.

A year or two afterwards the question was re - opened in a curious way; a series of events which led a certain Dr Mulborough, called by his intimates Mulberry in apt allusion to something rich and fruity about his dark rotundity and rather empurpled visage, travelling by train down to Potter’s Pond, with a friend whom he had often consulted upon problems of the kind. In spite of the somewhat port - winy and ponderous exterior of the doctor, he had a shrewd eye and was really a man of very remarkable sense; which he considered that he showed in consulting a little priest named Brown, whose acquaintance he had made over a poisoning case long ago. The little priest was sitting opposite to him, with the air of a patient baby absorbing instruction; and the doctor was explaining at length the real reasons for the journey.

‘I cannot agree with the gentleman in the magenta coat that Potter’s Pond is only a wretched little hamlet. But it is certainly a very remote and secluded village; so that it seems quite outlandish, like a village of a hundred years ago. The spinsters are really spinsters - damn it, you could almost imagine you saw them spin. The ladies are not just ladies. They are gentlewomen; and their chemist is not a chemist, but an apothecary; pronounced potecary. They do just admit the existence of an ordinary doctor like myself to assist the apothecary. But I am considered rather a juvenile innovation, because I am only fifty - seven years old and have only been in the county for twenty - eight years. The solicitor looks as if he had known it for twenty - eight thousand years. Then there is the old Admiral, who is just like a Dickens illustration; with a house full of cutlasses and cuttle - fish and equipped with a telescope.’

‘I suppose,’ said Father Brown, ‘there are always a certain number of Admirals washed up on the shore. But I never understood why they get stranded so far inland.’

‘Certainly no dead - alive place in the depths of the country is complete without one of these little creatures,’ said the doctor. ‘And then, of course, there is the proper sort of clergyman; Tory and High Church in a dusty fashion dating from Archbishop Laud; more of an old woman than any of the old women. He’s a white - haired studious old bird, more easily shocked than the spinsters. Indeed, the gentlewomen, though Puritan in their principles, are sometimes pretty plain in their speech; as the real Puritans were. Once or twice I have known old Miss Carstairs - Carew use expressions as lively as anything in the Bible. The dear old clergyman is assiduous in reading the Bible; but I almost fancy he shuts his eyes when he comes to those words. Well, you know I’m not particularly modern. I don’t enjoy this jazzing and joy - riding of the Bright Young Things - ’

‘The Bright Young Things don’t enjoy it,’ said Father Brown. ‘That is the real tragedy.’

‘But I am naturally rather more in touch with the world than the people in this prehistoric village,’ pursued the doctor. ‘And I had reached a point when I almost welcomed the Great Scandal.’

‘Don’t say the Bright Young Things have found Potter’s Pond after all,’ observed the priest, smiling.

‘Oh, even our scandal is on old - established melodramatic lines. Need I say that the clergyman’s son promises to be our problem? It would be almost irregular, if the clergyman’s son were quite regular. So far as I can see, he is very mildly and almost feebly irregular. He was first seen drinking ale outside the Blue Lion. Only it seems he is a poet, which in those parts is next door to being a poacher.’

‘Surely,’ said Father Brown, ‘even in Potter’s Pond that cannot be the Great Scandal.’

‘No,’ replied the doctor gravely. ‘The Great Scandal began thus. In the house called The Grange, situated at the extreme end of The Grove, there lives a lady. A Lonely Lady. She calls herself Mrs Maltravers (that is how we put it); but she only came a year or two ago and nobody knows anything about her. “I can’t think why she wants to live here,” said Miss Carstairs - Carew; “we do not visit her.”’

‘Perhaps that’s why she wants to live there,’ said Father Brown.

‘Well, her seclusion is considered suspicious. She annoys them by being good - looking and even what is called good style. And all the young men are warned against her as a vamp.’

‘People who lose all their charity generally lose all their logic,’ remarked Father Brown. ‘It’s rather ridiculous to complain that she keeps to herself; and then accuse her of vamping the whole male population.’

‘That is true,’ said the doctor. ‘And yet she is really rather a puzzling person. I saw her and found her intriguing; one of those brown women, long and elegant and beautifully ugly, if you know what I mean. She is rather witty, and though young enough certainly gives me an impression of what they call - well, experience. What the old ladies call a Past.’

‘All the old ladies having been born this very minute,’ observed Father Brown. ‘I think I can assume she is supposed to have vamped the parson’s son.’

‘Yes, and it seems to be a very awful problem to the poor old parson. She is supposed to be a widow.’

Father Brown’s face had a flash and spasm of his rare irritation. ‘She is supposed to be a widow, as the parson’s son is supposed to be the parson’s son, and the solicitor is supposed to be a solicitor and you are supposed to be a doctor. Why in thunder shouldn’t she be a widow? Have they one speck of prima facie evidence for doubting that she is what she says she is?’ ,

Dr Mulborough abruptly squared his broad shoulders and sat up. ‘Of course you’re right again,’ he said. ‘But we haven’t come to the scandal yet. Well, the scandal is that she is a widow.’

‘Oh,’ said Father Brown; and his face altered and he said something soft and faint, that might almost have been ‘My God!’

‘First of all,’ said the doctor, ‘they have made one discovery about Mrs Maltravers. She is an actress.’

‘I fancied so,’ said Father Brown. ‘Never mind why. I had another fancy about her, that would seem even more irrelevant.’

‘Well, at that instant it was scandal enough that she was an actress. The dear old clergyman of course is heartbroken, to think that his white hairs should be brought in sorrow to the grave by an actress and adventuress. The spinsters shriek in chorus. The Admiral admits he has sometimes been to a theatre in town; but objects to such things in what he calls “our midst”. Well, of course I’ve no particular objections of that kind. This actress is certainly a lady, if a bit of a Dark Lady, in the manner of the Sonnets; the young man is very much in love with her; and I am no doubt a sentimental old fool in having a sneaking sympathy with the misguided youth who is sneaking round the Moated Grange; and I was getting into quite a pastoral frame of mind about this idyll, when suddenly the thunderbolt fell. And I, who am the only person who ever had any sympathy with these people, am sent down to be the messenger of doom.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, ‘and why were you sent down?’

The doctor answered with a sort of groan:

‘Mrs Maltravers is not only a widow, but she is the widow of Mr Maltravers.’

‘It sounds like a shocking revelation, as you state it,’ acknowledged the priest seriously.

‘And Mr Maltravers,’ continued his medical friend, ‘was the man who was apparently murdered in this very village a year or two ago; supposed to have been bashed on the head by one of the simple villagers.’

‘I remember you told me,’ said Father Brown. ‘The doctor, or some doctor, said he had probably died of being clubbed on the head with a cudgel.’

Dr Mulborough was silent for a moment in frowning embarrassment, and then said curtly:

‘Dog doesn’t eat dog, and doctors don’t bite doctors, not even when they are mad doctors. I shouldn’t care to cast any reflection on my eminent predecessor in Potter’s Pond, if I could avoid it; but I know you are really safe for secrets. And, speaking in confidence, my eminent predecessor at Potter’s Pond was a blasted fool; a drunken old humbug and absolutely incompetent. I was asked, originally by the Chief Constable of the County (for I’ve lived a long time in the county, though only recently in the village), to look into the whole business; the depositions and reports of the inquest and so on. And there simply isn’t any question about it. Maltravers may have been hit on the head; he was a strolling actor passing through the place; and Potter’s Pond probably thinks it is all in the natural order that such people should be hit on the head. But whoever hit him on the head did not kill him; it is simply impossible for the injury, as described, to do more than knock him out for a few hours. But lately I have managed to turn up some other facts bearing on the matter; and the result of it is pretty grim.’

He sat louring at the landscape as it slid past the window, and then said more curtly: ‘I am coming down here, and asking your help, because there’s going to be an exhumation. There is very strong suspicion of poison.’

‘And here we are at the station,’ said Father Brown cheerfully. ‘I suppose your idea is that poisoning the poor man would naturally fall among the household duties of his wife.’

‘Well, there never seems to have been anyone else here who had any particular connection with him,’ replied Mulborough, as they alighted from the train. ‘At least there is one queer old crony of his, a broken

• down actor, hanging around; but the police and the local solicitor seem convinced he is an unbalanced busybody; with some idee fixe about a quarrel with an actor who was his enemy; but who certainly wasn’t Maltravers. A wandering accident, I should say, and certainly nothing to do with the problem of the poison.’

Father Brown had heard the story. But he knew that he never knew a story until he knew the characters in the story. He spent the next two or three days in going the rounds, on one polite excuse or another, to visit the chief actors of the drama. His first interview with the mysterious widow was brief but bright. He brought away from it at least two facts; one that Mrs Maltravers sometimes talked in a way which the Victorian village would call cynical; and, second, that like not a few actresses, she happened to belong to his own religious communion.

He was not so illogical (nor so unorthodox) as to infer from this alone that she was innocent of the alleged crime. He was well aware that his old religious communion could boast of several distinguished poisoners. But he had no difficulty in understanding its connection, in this sort of case, with a certain intellectual liberty which these Puritans would call laxity; and which would certainly seem to this parochial patch of an older England to be almost cosmopolitan. Anyhow, he was sure she could count for a great deal, whether for good or evil. Her brown eyes were brave to the point of battle, and her enigmatic mouth, humorous and rather large, suggested that her purposes touching the parson’s poetical son, whatever they might be, were planted pretty deep.

The parson’s poetical son himself, interviewed amid vast village scandal on a bench outside the Blue Lion, gave an impression of pure sulks. Hurrel Horner, a son of the Rev. Samuel Horner, was a square - built young man in a pale grey suit with a touch of something arty in a pale green tie, otherwise mainly notable for a mane of auburn hair and a permanent scowl. But Father Brown had a way with him in getting people to explain at considerable length why they refused to say a single word. About the general scandalmongering in the village, the young man began to curse freely. He even added a little scandalmongering of his own. He referred bitterly to alleged past flirtations between the Puritan Miss Carstairs – Carew and Mr Carver the solicitor. He even accused that legal character of having attempted to force himself upon the acquaintance of Mrs Maltravers. But when he came to speak of his own father, whether out of an acid decency or piety, or because his anger was too deep for speech, he snapped out only a few words.

‘Well, there it is. He denounces her day and night as a painted adventuress; a sort of barmaid with gilt hair. I tell him she’s not; you’ve met her yourself, and you know she’s not. But he won’t even meet her. He won’t even see her in the street or look at her out of a window. An actress would pollute his house and even his holy presence. If he is called a Puritan he says he’s proud to be a Puritan.’

‘Your father,’ said Father Brown, ‘is entitled to have his views respected, whatever they are; they are not views I understand very well myself. But I agree he is not entitled to lay down the law about a lady he has never seen and then refuse even to look at her, to see if he is right. That is illogical.’

‘That’s his very stiffest point,’ replied the youth. ‘Not even one momentary meeting. Of course, he thunders against my other theatrical tastes as well.’

Father Brown swiftly followed up the new opening, and learnt much that he wanted to know. The alleged poetry, which was such a blot on the young man’s character, was almost entirely dramatic poetry. He had written tragedies in verse which had been admired by good judges. He was no mere stage - struck fool; indeed he was no fool of any kind. He had some really original ideas about acting Shakespeare; it was easy to understand his having been dazzled and delighted by finding the brilliant lady at the Grange. And even the priest’s intellectual sympathy so far mellowed the rebel of Potter’s Pond that at their parting he actually smiled.

It was that smile which suddenly revealed to Father Brown that the young man was really miserable. So long as he frowned, it might well have been only sulks; but when he smiled it was somehow a more real revelation of sorrow.

Something continued to haunt the priest about that interview with the poet. An inner instinct certified that the sturdy young man was eaten from within, by some grief greater even than the conventional story of conventional parents being obstacles to the course of true love. It was all the more so, because there were not any obvious alternative causes. The boy was already rather a literary and dramatic success; his books might be said to be booming. Nor did he drink or dissipate his well - earned wealth. His notorious revels at the Blue Lion reduced themselves to one glass of light ale; and he seemed to be rather careful with his money. Father Brown thought of another possible complication in connection with Hurrel’s large resources and small expenditure; and his brow darkened.

The conversation of Miss Carstairs - Carew, on whom he called next, was certainly calculated to paint the parson’s son in the darkest colours. But as it was devoted to blasting him with all the special vices which Father Brown was quite certain the young man did not exhibit, he put it down to a common combination of Puritanism and gossip. The lady, though lofty, was quite gracious, however, and offered the visitor a small glass of port - wine and a slice of seed - cake, in the manner of everybody’s most ancient great - aunts, before he managed to escape from a sermon on the general decay of morals and manners.

His next port of call was very much of a contrast; for he disappeared down a dark and dirty alley, where Miss Carstairs - Carew would have refused to follow him even in thought; and then into a narrow tenement made noisier by a high and declamatory voice in an attic … From this he re - emerged, with a rather dazed expression, pursued on to the pavement by a very excited man with a blue chin and a black frock - coat faded to bottle - green, who was shouting argumentatively: ‘He did not disappear! Maltravers never disappeared! He appeared: he appeared dead and I’ve appeared alive. But where’s all the rest of the company? Where’s that man, that monster, who deliberately stole my lines, crabbed my best scenes and ruined my career? I was the finest Tubal that ever trod the boards. He acted Shylock - he didn’t need to act much for that! And so with the greatest opportunity of my whole career. I could show you press - cuttings on my renderings of Fortinbras - ’

‘I’m quite sure they were splendid and very well - deserved,’ gasped the little priest. ‘I understood the company had left the village before Maltravers died. But it’s all right. It’s quite all right.’ And he began to hurry down the street again.

‘He was to act Polonius,’ continued the unquenchable orator behind him. Father Brown suddenly stopped dead.

‘Oh,’ he said very slowly, ‘he was to act Polonius.’

‘That villain Hankin!’ shrieked the actor. ‘Follow his trail. Follow him to the ends of the earth! Of course he’d left the village; trust him for that. Follow him - find him; and may the curses - ’ But the priest was again hurrying away down the street.

Two much more prosaic and perhaps more practical interviews followed this melodramatic scene. First the priest went into the bank, where he was closeted for ten minutes with the manager; and then paid a very proper call on the aged and amiable clergyman. Here again all seemed very much as described, unaltered and seemingly unalterable; a touch or two of devotion from more austere traditions, in the narrow crucifix on the wall, the big Bible on the bookstand and the old gentleman’s opening lament over the increasing disregard of Sunday; but all with a flavour of gentility that was not without its little refinements and faded luxuries.

The clergyman also gave his guest a glass of port; but accompanied by an ancient British biscuit instead of seedcake. The priest had again the weird feeling that everything was almost too perfect, and that he was living a century before his time. Only on one point the amiable old parson refused to melt into any further amiability; he meekly but firmly maintained that his conscience would not allow him to meet a stage player. However, Father Brown put down his glass of port with expressions of appreciation and thanks; and went off to meet his friend the doctor by appointment at the corner of the street; whence they were to go together to the offices of Mr Carver, the solicitor.

‘I suppose you’ve gone the dreary round,’ began the doctor, ‘and found it a very dull village.’

Father Brown’s reply was sharp and almost shrill. ‘Don’t call your village dull. I assure you it’s a very extraordinary village indeed.’

‘I’ve been dealing with the only extraordinary thing that ever happened here, I should think,’ observed Dr Mulborough. ‘And even that happened to somebody from outside. I may tell you they managed the exhumation quietly last night; and I did the autopsy this morning. In plain words we’ve been digging up a corpse that’s simply stuffed with poison.’

‘A corpse stuffed with poison,’ repeated Father Brown rather absently. ‘Believe me, your village contains something much more extraordinary than that.’

There was abrupt silence, followed by the equally abrupt pulling of the antiquated bell - pull in the porch of the solicitor’s house; and they were soon brought into the presence of that legal gentleman, who presented them in turn to a white - haired, yellow - faced gentleman with a scar, who appeared to be the Admiral.

By this time the atmosphere of the village had sunk almost into the subconsciousness of the little priest; but he was conscious that the lawyer was indeed the sort of lawyer to be the adviser of people like Miss Carstairs - Carew. But though he was an archaic old bird, he seemed something more than a fossil. Perhaps it was the uniformity of the background; but the priest had again the curious feeling that he himself was transplanted back into the early nineteenth century, rather than that the solicitor had survived into the early twentieth. His collar and cravat contrived to look almost like a stock as he settled his long chin into them; but they were clean as well as clean - cut; and there was even something about him of a very - dry old dandy. In short, he was what is called well preserved, even if partly by being petrified.

The lawyer and the Admiral, and even the doctor, showed some surprise on finding that Father Brown was rather disposed to defend the parson’s son against the local lamentations on behalf of the parson.

‘I thought our young friend rather attractive, myself,’ he said. ‘He’s a good talker and I should guess a good poet; and Mrs Maltravers, who is serious about that at least, says he’s quite a good actor.’

‘Indeed,’ said the lawyer. ‘Potter’s Pond, outside Mrs Maltravers, is rather more inclined to ask if he is a good son.’

‘He is a good son,’ said Father Brown. ‘That’s the extraordinary thing.’

‘Damn it all,’ said the Admiral. ‘Do you mean he’s really fond of his father?’

The priest hesitated. Then he said, ‘I’m not quite so sure about that. That’s the other extraordinary thing.’

‘What the devil do you mean?’ demanded the sailor with nautical profanity.

‘I mean,’ said Father Brown, ‘that the son still speaks of his father in a hard unforgiving way; but he seems after all to have done more than his duty by him. I had a talk with the bank manager, and as we were inquiring in confidence into a serious crime, under authority from the police, he told me the facts. The old clergyman has retired from parish work; indeed, this was never actually his parish. Such of the populace, which is pretty pagan, as goes to church at all, goes to Dutton - Abbot, not a mile away. The old man has no private means, but his son is earning good money; and the old man is well looked after. He gave me some port of absolutely first - class vintage; I saw rows of dusty old bottles of it; and I left him sitting down to a little lunch quite recherche in an old - fashioned style. It must be done on the young man’s money.’

‘Quite a model son,’ said Carver with a slight sneer.

Father Brown nodded, frowning, as if revolving a riddle of his own; and then said: ‘A model son. But rather a mechanical model.’

At this moment a clerk brought in an unstamped letter for the lawyer; a letter which the lawyer tore impatiently across after a single glance. As it fell apart, the priest saw a spidery, crazy crowded sort of handwriting and the signature of ‘Phoenix Fitzgerald’; and made a guess which the other curtly confirmed.

‘It’s that melodramatic actor that’s always pestering us,’ he said. ‘He’s got some fixed feud with some dead and gone fellow mummer of his, which can’t have anything to do with the case. We all refuse to see him, except the doctor, who did see him; and the doctor says he’s mad.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, pursing his lips thoughtfully. ‘I should say he’s mad. But of course there can’t be any doubt that he’s right.’

‘Right?’ cried Carver sharply. ‘Right about what?’

‘About this being connected with the old theatrical company,’ said Father Brown. ‘Do you know the first thing that stumped me about this story? It was that notion that Maltravers was killed by villagers because he insulted their village. It’s extraordinary what coroners can get jurymen to believe; and journalists, of course, are quite incredibly credulous. They can’t know much about English rustics. I’m an English rustic myself; at least I was grown, with other turnips, in Essex. Can you imagine an English agricultural labourer idealizing and personifying his village, like the citizen of an old Greek city state; drawing the sword for its sacred banner, like a man in the tiny medieval republic of an Italian town? Can you hear a jolly old gaffer saying, “Blood alone can wipe out one spot on the escutcheon of Potter’s Pond”? By St George and the Dragon, I only wish they would! But, as a matter of fact, I have a more practical argument for the other notion.’

He paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, and then went on: ‘They misunderstood the meaning of those few last words poor Maltravers was heard to say. He wasn’t telling the villagers that the village was only a hamlet. He was talking to an actor; they were going to put on a performance in which Fitzgerald was to be Fortinbras, the unknown Hankin to be Polonius, and Maltravers, no doubt, the Prince of Denmark. Perhaps somebody else wanted the part or had views on the part; and Maltravers said angrily, “You’d be a miserable little Hamlet”; that’s all.’

Dr Mulborough was staring; he seemed to be digesting the suggestion slowly but without difficulty. At last he said, before the others could speak: ‘And what do you suggest that we should do now?’

Father Brown arose rather abruptly; but he spoke civilly enough. ‘If these gentlemen will excuse us for a moment, I propose that you and I, doctor, should go round at once to the Horners. I know the parson and his son will both be there just now. And what I want to do, doctor, is this. Nobody in the village knows yet, I think, about your autopsy and its result. I want you simply to tell both the clergyman and his son, while they are there together, the exact fact of the case; that Maltravers died by poison and not by a blow.’

Dr Mulborough had reason to reconsider his incredulity when told that it was an extraordinary village. The scene which ensued, when he actually carried out the priest’s programme, was certainly of the sort in which a man, as the saying is, can hardly believe his eyes.

The Rev. Samuel Horner was standing in his black cassock, which threw up the silver of his venerable head; his hand rested at the moment on the lectern at which he often stood to study the Scripture, now possibly by accident only; but it gave him a greater look of authority. And opposite to him his mutinous son was sitting asprawl in a chair, smoking a cheap cigarette with an exceptionally heavy scowl; a lively picture of youthful impiety.

The old man courteously waved Father Brown to a seat, which he took and sat there silent, staring blandly at the ceiling. But something made Mulborough feel that he could deliver his important news more impressively standing up.

‘I feel,’ he said, ‘that you ought to be informed, as in some sense the spiritual father of this community, that one terrible tragedy in its record has taken on a new significance; possibly even more terrible. You will recall the sad business of the death of Maltravers; who was adjudged to have been killed with the blow of a stick, probably wielded by some rustic enemy.’

The clergyman made a gesture with a wavering hand. ‘God forbid,’ he said, ‘that I should say anything that might seem to palliate murderous violence in any case. But when an actor brings his wickedness into this innocent village, he is challenging the judgement of God.’

‘Perhaps,’ said the doctor gravely. ‘But anyhow it was not so that the judgement fell. I have just been commissioned to conduct a post - mortem on the body; and I can assure you, first, that the blow on the head could not conceivably have caused the death; and, second, that the body was full of poison, which undoubtedly caused death.’

Young Hurrel Horner sent his cigarette, flying and was on his feet with the lightness and swiftness of a cat. His leap landed him within a yard of the reading - desk.

‘Are you certain of this?’ he gasped. ‘Are you absolutely certain that that blow could not cause death?’

‘Absolutely certain,’ said the doctor.

‘Well,’ said Hurrel, ‘I almost wish this one could.’

In a flash, before anyone could move a finger, he had struck the parson a stunning crack on the mouth, dashing him backwards like a disjointed black doll against the door.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Mulborough, shaken from head to foot with the shock and mere sound of the blow. ‘Father Brown, what is this madman doing?’

But Father Brown had not stirred; he was still staring serenely at the ceiling.

‘I was waiting for him to do that,’ said the priest placidly. ‘I rather wonder he hasn’t done it before.’

‘Good God,’ cried the doctor. ‘I know we thought he was wronged in some ways; but to strike his father; to strike a clergyman and a non - combatant - ’

‘He has not struck his father; and he has not struck a clergyman,’ said Father Brown. ‘He has struck a blackmailing blackguard of an actor dressed up as a clergyman, who has lived on him like a leech for years. Now he knows he is free of the blackmail, he lets fly; and I can’t say I blame him much. More especially as I have very strong suspicions that the blackmailer is a poisoner as well. I think, Mulborough, you had better ring up the police.’

They passed out of the room uninterrupted by the two others, the one dazed and staggered, the other still blind and snorting and panting with passions of relief and rage. But as they passed, Father Brown once turned his face to the young man; and the young man was one of the very few human beings who have seen that face implacable.

‘He was right there,’ said Father Brown. ‘When an actor brings his wickedness into this innocent village, he challenges the judgement of God.’

‘Well,’ said Father Brown, as he and the doctor again settled themselves in a railway carriage standing in the station of Potter’s Pond. ‘As you say, it’s a strange story; but I don’t think it’s any longer a mystery story. Anyhow, the story seems to me to have been roughly this. Maltravers came here, with part of his touring company; some of them went straight to Dutton - Abbot, where they were all presenting some melodrama about the early nineteenth century; he himself happened to be hanging about in his stage dress, the very distinctive dress of a dandy of that time. Another character was an old - fashioned parson, whose dark dress was less distinctive and might pass as being merely old - fashioned. This part was taken by a man who mostly acted old men; had acted Shylock and was afterwards going to act Polonius.

‘A third figure in the drama was our dramatic poet, who was also a dramatic performer, and quarrelled with Maltravers about how to present Hamlet, but more about personal things, too. I think it likely that he was in love with Mrs Maltravers even then; I don’t believe there was anything wrong with them; and I hope it may now be all right with them. But he may very well have resented Maltravers in his conjugal capacity; for Maltravers was a bully and likely to raise rows. In some such row they fought with sticks, and the poet hit Maltravers very hard on the head, and, in the light of the inquest, had every reason to suppose he had killed him.

‘A third person was present or privy to the incident, the man acting the old parson; and he proceeded to blackmail the alleged murderer, forcing from him the cost of his upkeep in some luxury as a retired clergyman. It was the obvious masquerade for such a man in such a place, simply to go on wearing his stage clothes as a retired clergyman. But he had his own reason for being a very retired clergyman. For the true story of Maltravers’ death was that he rolled into a deep undergrowth of bracken, gradually recovered, tried to walk towards a house, and was eventually overcome, not by the blow, but by the fact that the benevolent clergyman had given him poison an hour before, probably in a glass of port. I was beginning to think so, when I drank a glass of the parson’s port. It made me a little nervous. The police are working on that theory now; but whether they will be able to prove that part of the story, I don’t know. They will have to find the exact motive; but it’s obvious that this bunch of actors was buzzing with quarrels and Maltravers was very much hated.’

‘The police may prove something now they have got the suspicion,’ said Dr Mulborough. ‘What I don’t understand is why you ever began to suspect. Why in the world should you suspect that very blameless black - coated gentleman?’

Father Brown smiled faintly. ‘I suppose in one sense,’ he said, ‘it was a matter of special knowledge; almost a professional matter, but in a peculiar sense. You know our controversialists often complain that there is a great deal of ignorance about what our religion is really like. But it is really more curious than that. It is true, and it is not at all unnatural, that England does not know much about the Church of Rome. But England does not know much about the Church of England. Not even as much as I do. You would be astonished at how little the average public grasps about the Anglican controversies; lots of them don’t really know what is meant by a High Churchman or a Low Churchman, even on the particular points of practice, let alone the two theories of history and philosophy behind them. You can see this ignorance in any newspaper; in any merely popular novel or play.

‘Now the first thing that struck me was that this venerable cleric had got the whole thing incredibly mixed up. No Anglican parson could be so wrong about every Anglican problem. He was supposed to be an old Tory High Churchman; and then he boasted of being a Puritan. A man like that might personally be rather Puritanical; but he would never call it being a Puritan. He professed a horror of the stage; he didn’t know that High Churchmen generally don’t have that special horror, though Low Churchmen do. He talked like a Puritan about the Sabbath; and then he had a crucifix in his room. He evidently had no notion of what a very pious parson ought to be, except that he ought to be very solemn and venerable and frown upon the pleasures of the world.

‘All this time there was a subconscious notion running in my head; something I couldn’t fix in my memory; and then it came to me suddenly. This is a Stage Parson. That is exactly the vague venerable old fool who would be the nearest notion a popular playwright or play - actor of the old school had of anything so odd as a religious man.’

‘To say nothing of a physician of the old school,’ said Mulborough good

• humouredly, ‘who does not set up to know much about being a religious man.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ went on Father Brown, ‘there was a plainer and more glaring cause for suspicion. It concerned the Dark Lady of the Grange, who was supposed to be the Vampire of the Village.

I very early formed the impression that this black blot was rather the bright spot of the village. She was treated as a mystery; but there was really nothing mysterious about her. She had come down here quite recently, quite openly, under her own name, to help the new inquiries to be made about her own husband. He hadn’t treated her too well; but she had principles, suggesting that something was due to her married name and to common justice. For the same reason, she went to live in the house outside which her husband had been found dead. The other innocent and straightforward case, besides the Vampire of the Village, was the Scandal of the Village, the parson’s profligate son. He also made no disguise of his profession or past connection with the acting world. That’s why I didn’t suspect him as I did the parson. But you’ll already have guessed a real and relevant reason for suspecting the parson.’

‘Yes, I think I see,’ said the doctor, ‘that’s why you bring in the name of the actress.’

‘Yes, I mean his fanatical fixity about not seeing the actress,’ remarked the priest. ‘But he didn’t really object to seeing her. He objected to her seeing him.’

‘Yes, I see that,’ assented the other. ‘If she had seen the Rev. Samuel Horner, she would instantly have recognized the very unreverend actor Hankin, disguised as a sham parson with a pretty bad character behind the disguise. Well, that is the whole of this simple village idyll, I think. But you will admit I kept my promise; I have shown you something in the village considerably more creepy than a corpse; even a corpse stuffed with poison. The black coat of a parson stuffed with a blackmailer is at least worth noticing and my live man is much deadlier than your dead one.’

‘Yes,’ said the doctor, settling himself back comfortably in the cushions. ‘If it comes to a little cosy company on a railway journey, I should prefer the corpse.’

THE END

ONE: The Scandal of Father Brown

It would not be fair to record the adventures of Father Brown, without admitting that he was once involved in a grave scandal. There still are persons, perhaps even of his own community, who would say that there was a sort of blot upon his name. It happened in a picturesque Mexican road

• house of rather loose repute, as appeared later; and to some it seemed that for once the priest had allowed a romantic streak in him, and his sympathy for human weakness, to lead him into loose and unorthodox action. The story in itself was a simple one; and perhaps the whole surprise of it consisted in its simplicity.

Burning Troy began with Helen; this disgraceful story began with the beauty of Hypatia Potter. Americans have a great power, which Europeans do not always appreciate, of creating institutions from below; that is by popular initiative. Like every other good thing, it has its lighter aspects; one of which, as has been remarked by Mr Wells and others, is that a person may become a public institution without becoming an official institution. A girl of great beauty or brilliancy will be a sort of uncrowned queen, even if she is not a Film Star or the original of a Gibson Girl. Among those who had the fortune, or misfortune, to exist beautifully in public in this manner, was a certain Hypatia Hard, who had passed through the preliminary stage of receiving florid compliments in society paragraphs of the local press, to the position of one who is actually interviewed by real pressmen. On War and Peace and Patriotism and Prohibition and Evolution and the Bible she had made her pronouncements with a charming smile; and if none of them seemed very near to the real grounds of her own reputation, it was almost equally hard to say what the grounds of her reputation really were. Beauty, and being the daughter of a rich man, are things not rare in her country; but to these she added whatever it is that attracts the wandering eye of journalism. Next to none of her admirers had even seen her, or even hoped to do so; and none of them could possibly derive any sordid benefit from her father’s wealth. It was simply a sort of popular romance, the modern substitute for mythology; and it laid the first foundations of the more turgid and tempestuous sort of romance in which she was to figure later on; and in which many held that the reputation of Father Brown, as well as of others, had been blown to rags.

It was accepted, sometimes romantically, sometimes resignedly, by those whom American satire has named the Sob Sisters, that she had already married a very worthy and respectable business man of the name of Potter. It was even possible to regard her for a moment as Mrs Potter, on the universal understanding that her husband was only the husband of Mrs Potter.

Then came the Great Scandal, by which her friends and enemies were horrified beyond their wildest hopes. Her name was coupled (as the queer phrase goes) with a literary man living in Mexico; in status an American, but in spirit a very Spanish American. Unfortunately his vices resembled her virtues, in being good copy. He was no less a person than the famous or infamous Rudel Romanes; the poet whose works had been so universally popularized by being vetoed by libraries or prosecuted by the police. Anyhow, her pure and placid star was seen in conjunction with this comet. He was of the sort to be compared to a comet, being hairy and hot; the first in his portraits, the second in his poetry. He was also destructive; the comet’s tail was a trail of divorces, which some called his success as a lover and some his prolonged failure as a husband. It was hard on Hypatia; there are disadvantages in conducting the perfect private life in public; like a domestic interior in a shop - window. Interviewers reported doubtful utterances about Love’s Larger Law of Supreme Self - Realization. The Pagans applauded. The Sob Sisterhood permitted themselves a note of romantic regret; some having even the hardened audacity to quote from the poem of Maud Mueller, to the effect that of all the words of tongue or pen, the saddest are ‘It might have been.’ And Mr Agar P. Rock, who hated the Sob Sisterhood with a holy and righteous hatred, said that in this case he thoroughly agreed with Bret Harte’s emendation of the poem:

‘More sad are those we daily see; it is, but it hadn’t ought to be.’

For Mr Rock was very firmly and rightly convinced that a very large number of things hadn’t ought to be. He was a slashing and savage critic of national degeneration, on the Minneapolis Meteor, and a bold and honest man. He had perhaps come to specialize too much in the spirit of indignation, but it had had a healthy enough origin in his reaction against sloppy attempts to confuse right and wrong in modern journalism and gossip. He expressed it first in the form of a protest against an unholy halo of romance being thrown round the gunman and the gangster. Perhaps he was rather too much inclined to assume, in robust impatience, that all gangsters were Dagos and that all Dagos were gangsters. But his prejudices, even when they were a little provincial, were rather refreshing after a certain sort of maudlin and unmanly hero - worship, which was ready to regard a professional murderer as a leader of fashion, so long as the pressmen reported that his smile was irresistible or his tuxedo was all right. Anyhow, the prejudices did not boil the less in the bosom of Mr Rock, because he was actually in the land of the Dagos when this story opens; striding furiously up a hill beyond the Mexican border, to the white hotel, fringed with ornamental palms, in which it was supposed that the Potters were staying and that the mysterious Hypatia now held her court. Agar Rock was a good specimen of a Puritan, even to look at; he might even have been a virile Puritan of the seventeenth century, rather than the softer and more sophisticated Puritan of the twentieth. If you had told him that his antiquated black hat and habitual black frown, and fine flinty features, cast a gloom over the sunny land of palms and vines, he would have been very much gratified. He looked to right and left with eyes bright with universal suspicions. And, as he did so, he saw two figures on the ridge above him, outlined against the clear sub - tropical sunset; figures in a momentary posture which might have made even a less suspicious man suspect something.

UNO: Lo scandalo di Padre Brown

Non sarebbe leale narrare le avventure di Padre Brown senza ammettere che egli fu, una volta, coinvolto in un grave scandalo. Vi sono tuttora persone, forse perfino della sua stessa comunità, che direbbero esservi stata una sorta di macchia sul suo nome. Accadde in una pittoresca casa messicana lungo la strada, di reputazione piuttosto equivoca, come apparve in seguito; e ad alcuni parve che per una volta il sacerdote avesse lasciato che una vena romantica di lui, e la sua simpatia per la debolezza umana, lo trascinassero a un’azione disinvolta e poco ortodossa. La storia in sé era semplice; e forse tutta la sua sorpresa consisteva proprio nella sua semplicità.

L’incendio di Troia cominciò con Elena; questa vergognosa vicenda cominciò con la bellezza di Hypatia Potter. Gli Americani possiedono un grande potere, che gli Europei non sempre apprezzano: quello di creare istituzioni dal basso, cioè per iniziativa popolare. Come ogni altra cosa buona, esso ha i suoi aspetti più leggeri; uno dei quali, come è stato osservato dal signor Wells e da altri, è che una persona può diventare un’istituzione pubblica senza diventare un’istituzione ufficiale. Una fanciulla di grande bellezza o brillantezza sarà una sorta di regina senza corona, anche se non è una diva del cinema o l’originale di una Gibson Girl. Tra coloro che ebbero la fortuna, o la sventura, di esistere bellamente in pubblico a questo modo, vi era una certa Hypatia Hard, la quale aveva attraversato lo stadio preliminare del ricevere fioriti complimenti nelle rubriche mondane della stampa locale, per giungere alla condizione di chi viene realmente intervistato da veri giornalisti. Sulla Guerra e sulla Pace e sul Patriottismo e sul Proibizionismo e sull’Evoluzione e sulla Bibbia ella aveva pronunciato i suoi verdetti con un sorriso incantevole; e se nessuno di essi pareva molto vicino ai veri fondamenti della sua fama, era quasi altrettanto difficile dire quali fossero davvero i fondamenti della sua fama. La bellezza, e l’essere figlia di un uomo ricco, sono cose non rare nel suo paese; ma a queste ella aggiungeva quel non so che attira l’occhio vagabondo del giornalismo. Quasi nessuno dei suoi ammiratori l’aveva mai vista, né sperava di vederla; e nessuno di loro avrebbe potuto trarre alcun sordido beneficio dalla ricchezza del padre di lei. Era semplicemente una sorta di romanticismo popolare, il moderno surrogato della mitologia; ed esso pose le prime fondamenta di quel genere più turgido e tempestoso di romanzo in cui ella avrebbe figurato più tardi; e nel quale molti ritennero che la reputazione di Padre Brown, così come quella di altri, fosse stata ridotta a brandelli.

Era accettato, talvolta romanticamente, talvolta rassegnatamente, da coloro che la satira americana ha battezzato le Sorelle del Singhiozzo, che ella avesse già sposato un uomo d’affari assai degno e rispettabile di nome Potter. Era perfino possibile considerarla per un momento come la signora Potter, nell’universale intesa che il marito fosse soltanto il marito della signora Potter.

Poi venne il Grande Scandalo, dal quale i suoi amici e i suoi nemici furono inorriditi al di là delle loro più sfrenate speranze. Il suo nome fu accoppiato (come vuole la bizzarra espressione) con un letterato che viveva in Messico; americano di stato civile, ma nello spirito uno spagnolo-americano fino al midollo. Sfortunatamente i suoi vizi rassomigliavano alle virtù di lei, nell’essere buona materia da stampa. Non era altri che il famoso o famigerato Rudel Romanes; il poeta le cui opere erano state così universalmente rese popolari dall’essere messe al bando dalle biblioteche o perseguite dalla polizia. Comunque fosse, la sua stella pura e placida fu vista in congiunzione con questa cometa. Egli era del tipo da paragonarsi a una cometa, essendo irsuto e ardente; il primo nei suoi ritratti, il secondo nella sua poesia. Era inoltre distruttivo; la coda della cometa era una scia di divorzi, che alcuni chiamavano il suo successo come amante e altri il suo prolungato fallimento come marito. Era dura per Hypatia; vi sono svantaggi nel condurre la perfetta vita privata in pubblico; come un interno domestico in una vetrina di negozio. Gli intervistatori riferivano dubbie affermazioni sulla Più Alta Legge dell’Amore verso la Suprema Realizzazione del Sé. I Pagani applaudivano. La Sorellanza del Singhiozzo si concedeva una nota di romantico rimpianto; alcune avendo perfino l’incallita audacia di citare dal poema di Maud Mueller, secondo cui, fra tutte le parole di lingua o di penna, le più tristi sono «avrebbe potuto essere». E il signor Agar P. Rock, che odiava la Sorellanza del Singhiozzo di un odio santo e giusto, disse che in questo caso concordava pienamente con l’emendamento del poema fatto da Bret Harte:

«Più tristi son quelle che ogni giorno vediamo: è, ma non avrebbe dovuto essere.»

Poiché il signor Rock era assai fermamente e giustamente convinto che un gran numero di cose non avrebbero dovuto essere. Egli era un critico tagliente e feroce della degenerazione nazionale, sul Meteor di Minneapolis, e un uomo ardito e onesto. Forse era giunto a specializzarsi troppo nello spirito dell’indignazione, ma questo aveva avuto un’origine abbastanza sana nella sua reazione contro i sciatti tentativi di confondere il bene e il male nel giornalismo e nel pettegolezzo moderni. Lo espresse dapprima nella forma di una protesta contro un empio alone di romanticismo gettato attorno al pistolero e al gangster. Forse era troppo incline a supporre, in robusta impazienza, che tutti i gangster fossero Dagos e che tutti i Dagos fossero gangster. Ma i suoi pregiudizi, anche quando erano un po’ provinciali, erano piuttosto rinfrescanti dopo un certo genere di lacrimoso e poco virile culto dell’eroe, pronto a considerare un assassino di professione come un arbitro d’eleganza, purché i giornalisti riferissero che il suo sorriso era irresistibile o che il suo smoking era impeccabile. Comunque fosse, i pregiudizi non ribollivano meno nel petto del signor Rock, dacché egli si trovava in effetti nella terra dei Dagos quando questa storia si apre; mentre saliva furibondo per una collina al di là del confine messicano, verso il bianco albergo, orlato di palme ornamentali, in cui si supponeva che i Potter alloggiassero e che la misteriosa Hypatia tenesse ora la sua corte. Agar Rock era un buon esemplare di Puritano, anche a vederlo; avrebbe potuto perfino essere un virile Puritano del diciassettesimo secolo, piuttosto che il più molle e più sofisticato Puritano del ventesimo. Se gli aveste detto che il suo antiquato cappello nero e il suo abituale cipiglio nero, e i suoi fini lineamenti di selce, gettavano un’ombra cupa sulla soleggiata terra di palme e di viti, ne sarebbe stato assai lusingato. Guardava a destra e a sinistra con occhi lucenti di sospetti universali. E, mentre lo faceva, vide due figure sul crinale sopra di lui, stagliate contro il limpido tramonto subtropicale; figure in una posa momentanea che avrebbe potuto far sospettare qualcosa perfino a un uomo meno sospettoso.

One of the figures was rather remarkable in itself. It was poised at the exact angle of the turning road above the valley, as if by an instinct for the site as well as the attitude of statuary. It was wrapt in a great black cloak, in the Byronic manner, and the head that rose above it in swarthy beauty was remarkably like Byron’s. This man had the same curling hair and curling nostrils; and he seemed to be snorting something of the same scorn and indignation against the world. He grasped in his hand a rather long cane or walking - stick, which having a spike of the sort used for mountaineering, carried at the moment a fanciful suggestion of a spear. It was rendered all the more fanciful by something comically contradictory in the figure of the other man, who carried an umbrella. It was indeed a new and neatly - rolled umbrella, very different, for instance, from Father Brown’s umbrella: and he was neatly clad like a clerk in light holiday clothes; a stumpy stoutish bearded man; but the prosaic umbrella was raised and even brandished at an acute angle of attack. The taller man thrust back at him, but in a hasty defensive manner; and then the scene rather collapsed into comedy; for the umbrella opened of itself and its owner almost seemed to sink behind it, while the other man had the air of pushing his spear through a great grotesque shield. But the other man did not push it, or the quarrel, very far; he plucked out the point, turned away impatiently and strode down the road; while the other, rising and carefully refolding his umbrella, turned in the opposite direction towards the hotel. Rock had not heard any of the words of the quarrel, which must have immediately preceded this brief and rather absurd bodily conflict; but as he went up the road in the track of the short man with the beard, he revolved many things. And the romantic cloak and rather operatic good looks of the one man, combined with the sturdy self - assertion of the other, fitted in with the whole story which he had come to seek; and he knew that he could have fixed those two strange figures with their names: Romanes and Potter.

His view was in every way confirmed when he entered the pillared porch; and heard the voice of the bearded man raised high in altercation or command. He was evidently speaking to the manager or staff of the hotel, and Rock heard enough to know that he was warning them of a wild and dangerous character in the neighbourhood.

‘If he’s really been to the hotel already,’ the little man was saying, in answer to some murmur, ‘all I can say is that you’d better not let him in again. Your police ought to be looking after a fellow of that sort, but anyhow, I won’t have the lady pestered with him.’

Rock listened in grim silence and growing conviction; then he slid across the vestibule to an alcove where he saw the hotel register and turning to the last page, saw ‘the fellow’ had indeed been to the hotel already. There appeared the name of ‘Rudel Romanes,’ that romantic public character, in very large and florid foreign lettering; and after a space under it, rather close together, the names of Hypatia Potter and Ellis T. Potter, in a correct and quite American handwriting.

Agar Rock looked moodily about him, and saw in the surroundings and even the small decorations of the hotel everything that he hated most. It is perhaps unreasonable to complain of oranges growing on orange - trees, even in small tubs; still more of their only growing on threadbare curtains or faded wallpapers as a formal scheme of ornament. But to him those red and golden moons, decoratively alternated with silver moons, were in a queer way the quintessence of all moonshine. He saw in them all that sentimental deterioration which his principles deplored in modern manners, and which his prejudices vaguely connected with the warmth and softness of the South. It annoyed him even to catch sight of a patch of dark canvas, half - showing a Watteau shepherd with a guitar, or a blue tile with a common - place design of a Cupid on a dolphin. His common sense would have told him that he might have seen these things in a shop - window on Fifth Avenue; but where they were, they seemed like a taunting siren voice of the Paganism of the Mediterranean. And then suddenly, the look of all these things seemed to alter, as a still mirror will flicker when a figure has flashed past it for a moment; and he knew the whole room was full of a challenging presence. He turned almost stiffly, and with a sort of resistance, and knew that he was facing the famous Hypatia, of whom he had read and heard for so many years.

Hypatia Potter, nee Hard, was one of those people to whom the word ‘radiant’ really does apply definitely and derivatively. That is, she allowed what the papers called her Personality to go out from her in rays. She would have been equally beautiful, and to some tastes more attractive, if she had been self - contained; but she had always been taught to believe that self - containment was only selfishness. She would have said that she had lost Self in Service; it would perhaps be truer to say that she had asserted Self in Service; but she was quite in good faith about the service. Therefore her outstanding starry blue eyes really struck outwards, as in the old metaphor that made eyes like Cupid’s darts, killing at a distance; but with an abstract conception of conquest beyond any mere coquetry. Her pale fair hair, though arranged in a saintly halo, had a look of almost electric radiation. And when she understood that the stranger before her was Mr Agar Rock, of the Minneapolis Meteor, her eyes took on themselves the range of long searchlights, sweeping the horizon of the States.

But in this the lady was mistaken; as she sometimes was. For Agar Rock was not Agar Rock of the Minneapolis Meteor. He was at that moment merely Agar Rock; there had surged up in him a great and sincere moral impulsion, beyond the coarse courage of the interviewer. A feeling profoundly mixed of a chivalrous and national sensibility to beauty, with an instant itch for moral action of some definite sort, which was also national, nerved him to face a great scene; and to deliver a noble insult. He remembered the original Hypatia, the beautiful Neo - Platonist, and how he had been thrilled as a boy by Kingsley’s romance in which the young monk denounces her for harlotries and idolatries. He confronted her with an iron gravity and said:

Una delle figure era piuttosto notevole in se stessa. Era posta all’angolo esatto della strada che svoltava sopra la valle, come per un istinto tanto del luogo quanto dell’atteggiamento statuario. Era avvolta in un grande mantello nero, alla maniera byroniana, e la testa che si levava sopra di esso in bruna bellezza rassomigliava straordinariamente a quella di Byron. Quest’uomo aveva gli stessi capelli inanellati e le stesse narici arricciate; e pareva sbuffare qualcosa dello stesso disprezzo e della stessa indignazione contro il mondo. Stringeva in mano una canna, o bastone da passeggio, piuttosto lungo, il quale, avendo una punta del tipo usato per l’alpinismo, portava in quel momento un fantasioso suggerimento di lancia. Ciò era reso ancor più fantasioso da qualcosa di comicamente contraddittorio nella figura dell’altro uomo, che portava un ombrello. Era invero un ombrello nuovo e ordinatamente arrotolato, assai diverso, per esempio, da quello di Padre Brown: ed egli era vestito con ordine come un impiegato in leggeri abiti da villeggiatura; un uomo tozzo, alquanto corpulento e barbuto; ma il prosaico ombrello era levato e perfino brandito a un angolo acuto d’attacco. L’uomo più alto lo respingeva, ma in maniera frettolosa e difensiva; e poi la scena piuttosto degenerò in commedia; poiché l’ombrello si aprì da sé e il suo proprietario parve quasi sprofondare dietro di esso, mentre l’altro uomo aveva l’aria di spingere la sua lancia attraverso un grande grottesco scudo. Ma l’altro uomo non spinse molto oltre né la lancia né il litigio; ritirò la punta, si voltò con impazienza e discese a gran passi per la strada; mentre l’altro, rialzandosi e ripiegando con cura il suo ombrello, si volse nella direzione opposta, verso l’albergo. Rock non aveva udito alcuna delle parole del litigio, che dovevano aver immediatamente preceduto questo breve e piuttosto assurdo conflitto corporale; ma mentre saliva per la strada sulle tracce dell’uomo basso con la barba, rimuginò molte cose. E il romantico mantello e i lineamenti piuttosto operistici del primo uomo, uniti alla robusta autoaffermazione dell’altro, si accordavano con tutta la storia che egli era venuto a cercare; e sapeva che avrebbe potuto fissare quelle due strane figure con i loro nomi: Romanes e Potter.

La sua opinione fu in ogni modo confermata quando entrò nel porticato colonnato; e udì la voce dell’uomo barbuto levarsi alta in un alterco o in un comando. Egli stava evidentemente parlando al direttore o al personale dell’albergo, e Rock udì abbastanza per capire che li stava mettendo in guardia contro un individuo selvaggio e pericoloso nei dintorni.

«Se davvero è già stato all’albergo,» stava dicendo l’ometto, in risposta a un qualche mormorio, «tutto ciò che posso dire è che fareste meglio a non lasciarlo entrare di nuovo. La vostra polizia dovrebbe tener d’occhio un tipo di quella sorta, ma comunque io non voglio che la signora sia molestata da lui.»

Rock ascoltò in cupo silenzio e con crescente convinzione; poi scivolò attraverso il vestibolo fino a un’alcova dove scorse il registro dell’albergo e, voltando all’ultima pagina, vide che «il tipo» era davvero già stato all’albergo. Vi appariva il nome di «Rudel Romanes», quel romantico personaggio pubblico, in caratteri stranieri assai grandi e fioriti; e più sotto, a una certa distanza, piuttosto ravvicinati, i nomi di Hypatia Potter ed Ellis T. Potter, in una calligrafia corretta e del tutto americana.

Agar Rock si guardò intorno con aria tetra, e vide negli arredi e perfino nelle piccole decorazioni dell’albergo tutto ciò che più odiava. È forse irragionevole lamentarsi che le arance crescano sugli aranci, sia pure in piccole vasche; e più ancora che crescano soltanto su tende lise o su carte da parati sbiadite come formale motivo ornamentale. Ma per lui quelle lune rosse e dorate, decorativamente alternate a lune d’argento, erano in un modo strano la quintessenza di ogni cosa lunatica. Vi vedeva tutta quella deteriorazione sentimentale che i suoi principii deploravano nei costumi moderni, e che i suoi pregiudizi vagamente connettevano col calore e con la mollezza del Sud. Lo irritava perfino scorgere una macchia di tela scura, che mostrava a metà un pastore di Watteau con una chitarra, o una piastrella azzurra con un banale disegno di un Cupido su un delfino. Il buon senso gli avrebbe detto che avrebbe potuto vedere queste cose in una vetrina della Fifth Avenue; ma là dove si trovavano, esse parevano come la beffarda voce di sirena del Paganesimo del Mediterraneo. E poi, d’improvviso, l’aspetto di tutte queste cose parve mutare, come uno specchio immoto tremolerà quando una figura vi è passata davanti in un lampo per un istante; ed egli capì che tutta la stanza era piena di una presenza che lo sfidava. Si voltò quasi rigidamente, e con una sorta di resistenza, e capì che si trovava di fronte alla famosa Hypatia, di cui aveva letto e sentito parlare per tanti anni.

Hypatia Potter, nata Hard, era una di quelle persone a cui la parola «radiosa» si applica davvero in senso proprio e derivativo. Vale a dire, ella lasciava che quella che i giornali chiamavano la sua Personalità si irradiasse da lei in raggi. Sarebbe stata ugualmente bella, e per certi gusti più attraente, se fosse stata padrona di sé; ma le era sempre stato insegnato a credere che il dominio di sé fosse soltanto egoismo. Avrebbe detto di aver perduto il Sé nel Servizio; sarebbe forse più esatto dire che aveva affermato il Sé nel Servizio; ma ella era del tutto in buona fede riguardo al servizio. Perciò i suoi cospicui occhi azzurri e stellati colpivano davvero all’esterno, come nell’antica metafora che faceva gli occhi simili ai dardi di Cupido, che uccidono a distanza; ma con un’astratta concezione di conquista al di là di ogni mera civetteria. I suoi pallidi capelli biondi, benché disposti in un’aureola da santa, avevano un aspetto di irradiazione quasi elettrica. E quando comprese che lo sconosciuto dinanzi a lei era il signor Agar Rock, del Meteor di Minneapolis, i suoi occhi assunsero la portata di lunghi riflettori, che spazzavano l’orizzonte degli Stati.

Ma in ciò la signora si sbagliava; come talvolta le accadeva. Poiché Agar Rock non era Agar Rock del Meteor di Minneapolis. In quel momento egli era semplicemente Agar Rock; era sorto in lui un grande e sincero impulso morale, al di là del rozzo coraggio dell’intervistatore. Un sentimento profondamente misto di una sensibilità cavalleresca e nazionale alla bellezza, con un immediato prurito di un’azione morale di qualche genere ben definito, che era anch’essa nazionale, gli diede il nerbo per affrontare una grande scena; e per pronunciare un nobile insulto. Ricordò l’originaria Ipazia, la bella Neoplatonica, e come da ragazzo lo avesse fatto fremere il romanzo di Kingsley in cui il giovane monaco la denuncia per meretricî e idolatrie. Le si parò dinanzi con una gravità di ferro e disse:

‘If you’ll pardon me. Madam, I should like to have a word with you in private.’

‘Well,’ she said, sweeping the room with her splendid gaze, ‘I don’t know whether you consider this place private.’

Rock also gazed round the room and could see no sign of life less vegetable than the orange trees, except what looked like a large black mushroom, which he recognized as the hat of some native priest or other, stolidly smoking a black local cigar, and otherwise as stagnant as any vegetable. He looked for a moment at the heavy, expressionless features, noting the rudeness of that peasant type from which priests so often come, in Latin and especially Latin - American countries; and lowered his voice a little as he laughed.

‘I don’t imagine that Mexican padre knows our language,’ he said. ‘Catch those lumps of laziness learning any language but their own. Oh, I can’t swear he’s a Mexican; he might be anything; mongrel Indian or nigger, I suppose. But I’ll answer for it he’s not an American. Our ministries don’t produce that debased type.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said the debased type, removing his black cigar, ‘I’m English and my name is Brown. But pray let me leave you if you wish to be private.’

‘If you’re English,’ said Rock warmly, ‘you ought to have some normal Nordic instinct for protesting against all this nonsense. Well, it’s enough to say now that I’m in a position to testify that there’s a pretty dangerous fellow hanging round this place; a tall fellow in a cloak, like those pictures of crazy poets.’

‘Well, you can’t go much by that,’ said the priest mildly; ‘a lot of people round here use those cloaks, because the chill strikes very suddenly after sunset.’

Rock darted a dark and doubtful glance at him; as if suspecting some evasion in the interests of all that was symbolized to him by mushroom hats and moonshine. ‘It wasn’t only the cloak,’ he growled, ‘though it was partly the way he wore it. The whole look of the fellow was theatrical, down to his damned theatrical good looks. And if you’ll forgive me, Madam, I strongly advise you to have nothing to do with him, if he comes bothering here. Your husband has already told the hotel people to keep him out - ’

Hypatia sprang to her feet and, with a very unusual gesture, covered her face, thrusting her fingers into her hair. She seemed to be shaken, possibly with sobs, but by the time she had recovered they had turned into a sort of wild laughter.

‘Oh, you are all too funny,’ she said, and, in a way very unusual with her, ducked and darted to the door and disappeared.

‘Bit hysterical when they laugh like that,’ said Rock uncomfortably; then, rather at a loss, and turning to the little priest: ‘as I say, if you’re English, you ought really to be on my side against these Dagos, anyhow. Oh, I’m not one of those who talk tosh about Anglo - Saxons; but there is such a thing as history. You can always claim that America got her civilization from England.’

‘Also, to temper our pride,’ said Father Brown, ‘we must always admit that England got her civilization from Dagos.’

Again there glowed in the other’s mind the exasperated sense that his interlocutor was fencing with him, and fencing on the wrong side, in some secret and evasive way; and he curtly professed a failure to comprehend.

‘Well, there was a Dago, or possibly a Wop, called Julius Caesar,’ said Father Brown; ‘he was afterwards killed in a stabbing match; you know these Dagos always use knives. And there was another one called Augustine, who brought Christianity to our little island; and really, I don’t think we should have had much civilization without those two.’

‘Anyhow, that’s all ancient history,’ said the somewhat irritated journalist, ‘and I’m very much interested in modern history. What I see is that these scoundrels are bringing Paganism to our country, and destroying all the Christianity there is. Also destroying all the common sense there is. All settled habits, all solid social order, all the way in which the farmers who were our fathers and grandfathers did manage to live in the world, melted into a hot mush by sensations and sensualities about filmstars who divorced every month or so, and make every silly girl think that marriage is only a way of getting divorced.’

‘You are quite right,’ said Father Brown. ‘Of course I quite agree with you there. But you must make some allowances. Perhaps these Southern people are a little prone to that sort of fault. You must remember that Northern people have other kinds of faults. Perhaps these surroundings do encourage people to give too rich an importance to mere romance.’

The whole integral indignation of Agar Rock’s life rose up within him at the word.

‘I hate Romance,’ he said, hitting the little table before him. ‘I’ve fought the papers I worked for for forty years about the infernal trash. Every blackguard bolting with a barmaid is called a romantic elopement or something; and now our own Hypatia Hard, a daughter of a decent people, may get dragged into some rotten romantic divorce case, that will be trumpeted to the whole world as happily as a royal wedding. This mad poet Romanes is hanging round her; and you bet the spotlight will follow him, as if he were any rotten little Dago who is called the Great Lover on the films. I saw him outside; and he’s got the regular spotlight face. Now my sympathies are with decency and common sense. My sympathies are with poor Potter, a plain straightforward broker from Pittsburgh, who thinks he has a right to his own home. And he’s making a fight for it, too. I heard him hollering at the management, telling them to keep that rascal out; and quite right too. The people here seem a sly and slinky lot; but I rather fancy he’s put the fear of God into them already.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Father Brown, ‘I rather agree with you about the manager and the men in this hotel; but you mustn’t judge all Mexicans by them. Also I fancy the gentleman you speak of has not only hollered, but handed round dollars enough to get the whole staff on his side. I saw them locking doors and whispering most excitedly. By the way, your plain straightforward friend seems to have a lot of money.’

«Se mi perdonerà, Signora, vorrei scambiare una parola con lei in privato.»

«Ebbene,» disse ella, spazzando la stanza col suo splendido sguardo, «non so se lei consideri privato questo luogo.»

Rock a sua volta si guardò intorno per la stanza e non poté scorgere alcun segno di vita meno vegetale degli aranci, tranne ciò che pareva un grande fungo nero, nel quale riconobbe il cappello di qualche prete indigeno o simile, che fumava impassibile un nero sigaro locale, e per il resto stagnante come qualsiasi vegetale. Guardò per un momento i lineamenti pesanti e inespressivi, notando la rozzezza di quel tipo contadino da cui i preti provengono così spesso, nei paesi latini e specialmente latino-americani; e abbassò un poco la voce mentre rideva.

«Non immagino che quel padre messicano conosca la nostra lingua,» disse. «Provate un po’ a far imparare a quelle masse di pigrizia una lingua diversa dalla propria. Oh, non giurerei che sia messicano; potrebbe essere qualsiasi cosa; un meticcio indiano o un negro, suppongo. Ma metto la mano sul fuoco che non è americano. I nostri ministeri non producono quel tipo degradato.»

«In verità,» disse il tipo degradato, togliendosi di bocca il nero sigaro, «sono inglese e il mio nome è Brown. Ma vi prego, lasciate che vi lasci, se desiderate essere in privato.»

«Se siete inglese,» disse Rock con calore, «dovreste avere qualche normale istinto nordico per protestare contro tutta questa insensatezza. Ebbene, basti dire per ora che sono in condizione di testimoniare che c’è un tipo piuttosto pericoloso che si aggira attorno a questo posto; un tipo alto in mantello, come quei ritratti di poeti pazzi.»

«Ebbene, da questo non potete arguire granché,» disse il prete mitemente; «molte persone da queste parti usano quei mantelli, perché il freddo cala molto all’improvviso dopo il tramonto.»

Rock gli lanciò un’occhiata scura e dubbiosa; come se sospettasse una qualche evasione a favore di tutto ciò che a lui era simboleggiato dai cappelli a fungo e dalle fandonie lunatiche. «Non era soltanto il mantello,» ringhiò, «benché fosse in parte il modo in cui lo portava. Tutto l’aspetto del tizio era teatrale, fin nella sua maledetta bellezza teatrale. E se mi perdonerete, Signora, vi consiglio vivamente di non aver nulla a che fare con lui, se viene a importunare qui. Vostro marito ha già detto alla gente dell’albergo di tenerlo fuori…»

Hypatia balzò in piedi e, con un gesto assai insolito, si coprì il volto, ficcandosi le dita fra i capelli. Pareva scossa, forse da singhiozzi, ma quando venne il momento della ripresa, questi si erano mutati in una sorta di riso selvaggio.

«Oh, siete tutti troppo buffi,» disse, e, in un modo assai insolito per lei, si chinò e si precipitò alla porta e scomparve.

«Un po’ isteriche quando ridono così,» disse Rock a disagio; poi, piuttosto smarrito, e voltandosi verso il piccolo prete: «come dicevo, se siete inglese, dovreste davvero stare dalla mia parte contro questi Dagos, in ogni caso. Oh, non sono uno di quelli che spargono sciocchezze sugli Anglosassoni; ma esiste una cosa chiamata storia. Potete sempre sostenere che l’America ha ricevuto la sua civiltà dall’Inghilterra.»

«E anche, per temperare il nostro orgoglio,» disse Padre Brown, «dobbiamo sempre ammettere che l’Inghilterra ricevette la sua civiltà dai Dagos.»

Di nuovo si accese nella mente dell’altro l’esasperato senso che il suo interlocutore stesse tirando di scherma con lui, e tirando di scherma dalla parte sbagliata, in qualche modo segreto ed evasivo; e dichiarò seccamente di non riuscire a comprendere.

«Ebbene, c’era un Dago, o forse un Wop, chiamato Giulio Cesare,» disse Padre Brown; «fu poi ucciso in una rissa a pugnalate; sapete che questi Dagos usano sempre i coltelli. E ce n’era un altro chiamato Agostino, che portò il Cristianesimo alla nostra piccola isola; e davvero, non credo che avremmo avuto molta civiltà senza quei due.»

«Comunque sia, questa è tutta storia antica,» disse il giornalista alquanto irritato, «e a me interessa moltissimo la storia moderna. Ciò che vedo è che questi mascalzoni stanno portando il Paganesimo nel nostro paese, e distruggendo tutto il Cristianesimo che c’è. E distruggendo anche tutto il buon senso che c’è. Tutte le abitudini stabili, tutto il solido ordine sociale, tutto il modo in cui i contadini che furono i nostri padri e i nostri nonni riuscirono a vivere nel mondo, disciolti in una calda poltiglia da sensazioni e sensualità su dive del cinema che divorziano un mese sì e uno no, e fanno credere a ogni stupida ragazza che il matrimonio sia soltanto un modo per divorziare.»

«Avete perfettamente ragione,» disse Padre Brown. «Naturalmente sono del tutto d’accordo con voi su questo. Ma dovete fare qualche concessione. Forse questa gente del Sud è un po’ incline a quel genere di colpa. Dovete ricordare che la gente del Nord ha altri generi di colpe. Forse questi luoghi incoraggiano davvero le persone a dare un’importanza troppo ricca al mero romanticismo.»

Tutta l’integrale indignazione della vita di Agar Rock si levò dentro di lui a quella parola.

«Io odio il romanticismo,» disse, battendo sul tavolinetto davanti a sé. «Ho combattuto i giornali per cui ho lavorato per quarant’anni a proposito di quella spazzatura infernale. Ogni farabutto che scappa con una cameriera di bar viene chiamato romantica fuga d’amore o qualcosa del genere; e ora la nostra stessa Hypatia Hard, figlia di gente per bene, rischia di essere trascinata in qualche marcio e romantico caso di divorzio, che sarà strombazzato al mondo intero con tanta allegria quanto un matrimonio reale. Questo pazzo poeta Romanes le sta attorno; e potete scommettere che il riflettore lo seguirà, come se fosse un qualsiasi marcio piccolo Dago che sui film viene chiamato il Grande Amante. L’ho visto fuori; e ha la classica faccia da riflettore. Ora le mie simpatie sono per la decenza e il buon senso. Le mie simpatie sono per il povero Potter, un semplice e schietto agente di cambio di Pittsburgh, che crede di aver diritto alla sua casa. E per essa combatte, anche. L’ho sentito sbraitare contro la direzione, dicendo loro di tenere fuori quel farabutto; e giustamente, per giunta. La gente di qui pare una razza subdola e sgusciante; ma ho la sensazione che egli abbia già messo loro addosso il timor di Dio.»

«In verità,» disse Padre Brown, «sono piuttosto d’accordo con voi riguardo al direttore e agli uomini di questo albergo; ma non dovete giudicare tutti i Messicani da loro. E ho anche la sensazione che il signore di cui parlate non abbia soltanto sbraitato, ma distribuito dollari a sufficienza per mettere tutto il personale dalla sua parte. Li ho visti chiudere le porte a chiave e bisbigliare tutti eccitatissimi. A proposito, il vostro semplice e schietto amico pare avere un sacco di denaro.»

‘I’ve no doubt his business does well,’ said Rock. ‘He’s quite the best type of sound business man. What do you mean?’

‘I fancied it might suggest another thought to you,’ said Father Brown; and, rising with rather heavy civility, he left the room.

Rock watched the Potters very carefully that evening at dinner; and gained some new impressions, though none that disturbed his deep sense of the wrong that probably threatened the peace of the Potter home. Potter himself proved worthy of somewhat closer study; though the journalist had at first accepted him as prosaic and unpretentious, there was a pleasure in recognizing finer lines in what he considered the hero or victim of a tragedy. Potter had really rather a thoughtful and distinguished face, though worried and occasionally petulant. Rock got an impression that the man was recovering from an illness; his faded hair was thin but rather long, as if it had been lately neglected, and his rather unusual beard gave the onlooker the same notion. Certainly he spoke once or twice to his wife in a rather sharp and acid manner, fussing about tablets or some detail of digestive science; but his real worry was doubtless concerned with the danger from without. His wife played up to him in the splendid if somewhat condescending manner of a Patient Griselda; but her eyes also roamed continually to the doors and shutters, as if in half - hearted fear of an invasion. Rock had only too good reason to dread, after her curious outbreak, the fact that her fear might turn out to be only half - hearted.

It was in the middle of the night that the extraordinary event occurred. Rock, imagining himself to be the last to go up to bed, was surprised to find Father Brown still tucked obscurely under an orange - tree in the hall, and placidly reading a book. He returned the other’s farewell without further words, and the journalist had his foot on the lowest step of the stair, when suddenly the outer door sprang on its hinges and shook and rattled under the shock of blows planted from without; and a great voice louder than the blows was heard violently demanding admission. Somehow the journalist was certain that the blows had been struck with a pointed stick like an alpenstock. He looked back at the darkened lower floor, and saw the servants of the hotel sliding here and there to see that the doors were locked; and not unlocking them. Then he slowly mounted to his room, and sat down furiously to write his report.

He described the siege of the hotel; the evil atmosphere; the shabby luxury of the place; the shifty evasions of the priest; above all, that terrible voice crying without, like a wolf prowling round the house. Then, as he wrote, he heard a new sound and sat up suddenly. It was a long repeated whistle, and in his mood he hated it doubly, because it was like the signal of a conspirator and like the love - call of a bird. There followed an utter silence, in which he sat rigid; then he rose abruptly; for he had heard yet another noise. It was a faint swish followed by a sharp rap or rattle; and he was almost certain that somebody was throwing something at the window. He walked stiffly downstairs, to the floor which was now dark and deserted; or nearly deserted. For the little priest was still sitting under the orange shrub, lit by a low lamp; and still reading his book.

‘You seem to be sitting up late,’ he said harshly.

‘Quite a dissipated character,’ said Father Brown, looking up with a broad smile, ‘reading Economics of Usury at all wild hours of the night.’

‘The place is locked up,’ said Rock.

‘Very thoroughly locked up,’ replied the other. ‘Your friend with the beard seems to have taken every precaution. By the way, your friend with the beard is a little rattled; I thought he was rather cross at dinner.’

‘Natural enough,’ growled the other, ‘if he thinks savages in this savage place are out to wreck his home life.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better,’ said Father Brown, ‘if a man tried to make his home life nice inside, while he was protecting it from the things outside.’

‘Oh, I know you will work up all the casuistical excuses,’ said the other; ‘perhaps he was rather snappy with his wife; but he’s got the right on his side. Look here, you seem to me to be rather a deep dog. I believe you know more about this than you say. What the devil is going on in this infernal place? Why are you sitting up all night to see it through?’

‘Well,’ said Father Brown patiently, ‘I rather thought my bedroom might be wanted.’

‘Wanted by whom?’

‘As a matter of fact, Mrs Potter wanted another room,’ explained Father Brown with limpid clearness. ‘I gave her mine, because I could open the window. Go and see, if you like.’

‘I’ll see to something else first,’ said Rock grinding his teeth. ‘You can play your monkey tricks in this Spanish monkey - house, but I’m still in touch with civilization.’ He strode into the telephone - booth and rang up his paper; pouring out the whole tale of the wicked priest who helped the wicked poet. Then he ran upstairs into the priest’s room, in which the priest had just lit a short candle, showing the windows beyond wide open.

He was just in time to see a sort of rude - ladder unhooked from the window - sill and rolled up by a laughing gentleman on the lawn below. The laughing gentleman was a tall and swarthy gentleman, and was accompanied by a blonde but equally laughing lady. This time, Mr Rock could not even comfort himself by calling her laughter hysterical. It was too horribly genuine; and rang down the rambling garden - paths as she and her troubadour disappeared into the dark thickets.

Agar Rock turned on his companion a face of final and awful justice; like the Day of Judgement.

‘Well, all America is going to hear of this,’ he said. ‘In plain words, you helped her to bolt with that curly - haired lover.’

«Non ho dubbio che i suoi affari vadano bene,» disse Rock. «È proprio il miglior tipo di solido uomo d’affari. Che cosa volete dire?»

«Mi immaginavo che potesse suggerirvi un altro pensiero,» disse Padre Brown; e, alzandosi con una cortesia piuttosto pesante, lasciò la stanza.

Quella sera a cena Rock osservò i Potter con grande attenzione; e ne trasse alcune nuove impressioni, benché nessuna che turbasse il suo profondo senso del torto che probabilmente minacciava la pace della casa Potter. Potter stesso si dimostrò degno di uno studio alquanto più ravvicinato; benché il giornalista lo avesse dapprima accettato come prosaico e senza pretese, vi era un piacere nel riconoscere linee più fini in quello che egli considerava l’eroe o la vittima di una tragedia. Potter aveva davvero un volto piuttosto pensoso e distinto, benché preoccupato e a tratti stizzoso. Rock ebbe l’impressione che l’uomo si stesse riprendendo da una malattia; i suoi capelli sbiaditi erano radi ma piuttosto lunghi, come se fossero stati di recente trascurati, e la sua barba piuttosto insolita dava all’osservatore la stessa idea. Certo parlò una o due volte alla moglie in maniera alquanto aspra e acida, agitandosi per delle pastiglie o per qualche dettaglio della scienza digestiva; ma il suo vero cruccio riguardava senza dubbio il pericolo che veniva dall’esterno. La moglie gli teneva bordone nel modo splendido, se pure alquanto condiscendente, di una Paziente Griselda; ma anche i suoi occhi vagavano di continuo verso le porte e le imposte, come in un timore a metà di un’invasione. Rock aveva fin troppo buone ragioni per paventare, dopo quel curioso scoppio di lei, che il suo timore potesse rivelarsi soltanto a metà sincero.

Fu nel cuore della notte che si verificò lo straordinario evento. Rock, immaginando di essere l’ultimo a salire a coricarsi, fu sorpreso di trovare Padre Brown ancora rincantucciato oscuramente sotto un arancio nell’atrio, intento a leggere placidamente un libro. Rese all’altro il saluto di commiato senza aggiungere parola, e il giornalista aveva già il piede sul primo gradino della scala, quando all’improvviso la porta esterna sobbalzò sui cardini e si scosse e tintinnò sotto l’urto di colpi vibrati dall’esterno; e una grande voce, più forte dei colpi stessi, si udì esigere violentemente di essere ammessa. In qualche modo il giornalista era certo che i colpi fossero stati vibrati con un bastone appuntito come un alpenstock. Volse lo sguardo verso il piano terra ormai buio, e vide i domestici dell’albergo scivolare qua e là per assicurarsi che le porte fossero chiuse a chiave; e non aprirle. Poi salì lentamente alla sua stanza, e si sedette furibondo a scrivere il suo reportage.

Descrisse l’assedio dell’albergo; l’atmosfera malvagia; il lusso squallido del luogo; le sfuggenti evasioni del prete; e soprattutto quella voce terribile che gridava fuori, come un lupo aggirantesi attorno alla casa. Poi, mentre scriveva, udì un nuovo suono e si drizzò di scatto. Era un fischio lungo e ripetuto, e nel suo umore lo odiò doppiamente, perché era insieme come il segnale di un cospiratore e come il richiamo d’amore di un uccello. Seguì un silenzio assoluto, in cui egli sedette rigido; poi si levò bruscamente; poiché aveva udito ancora un altro rumore. Era un debole fruscio seguito da un colpetto secco o da un ticchettio; ed egli era quasi certo che qualcuno stesse gettando qualcosa contro la finestra. Scese rigidamente le scale, fino al piano ormai buio e deserto; o quasi deserto. Poiché il piccolo prete era ancora seduto sotto l’arbusto d’arancio, illuminato da una fioca lampada; e leggeva ancora il suo libro.

«Pare che facciate le ore piccole,» disse aspramente.

«Un personaggio proprio dissoluto,» disse Padre Brown, alzando lo sguardo con un ampio sorriso, «a leggere l’Economia dell’Usura a ore tanto sconce della notte.»

«Il posto è tutto chiuso,» disse Rock.

«Chiuso molto accuratamente,» rispose l’altro. «Il vostro amico con la barba pare aver preso ogni precauzione. A proposito, il vostro amico con la barba è un po’ scosso; l’ho trovato piuttosto irritato a cena.»

«Abbastanza naturale,» ringhiò l’altro, «se crede che i selvaggi di questo luogo selvaggio vogliano mandare in rovina la sua vita di famiglia.»

«Non sarebbe meglio,» disse Padre Brown, «se un uomo cercasse di rendere piacevole la sua vita di famiglia all’interno, mentre la protegge dalle cose che vengono dall’esterno?»

«Oh, so bene che tirerete fuori tutte le scuse casistiche,» disse l’altro; «forse è stato un po’ brusco con la moglie; ma ha il diritto dalla sua parte. Sentite un po’, mi sembrate piuttosto un cane sornione. Credo che sappiate su tutto questo più di quanto dite. Che diavolo sta succedendo in questo posto infernale? Perché state seduto in piedi tutta la notte a vederne la fine?»

«Ebbene,» disse Padre Brown pazientemente, «pensavo che potessero aver bisogno della mia camera da letto.»

«Bisogno da parte di chi?»

«In verità, la signora Potter voleva un’altra stanza,» spiegò Padre Brown con limpida chiarezza. «Le ho dato la mia, perché potevo aprire la finestra. Andate a vedere, se volete.»

«Prima mi occuperò di qualcos’altro,» disse Rock digrignando i denti. «Potete pure giocare le vostre buffonate da scimmia in questa spagnolesca gabbia di scimmie, ma io sono ancora in contatto con la civiltà.» Entrò a gran passi nella cabina telefonica e chiamò il suo giornale; riversando l’intero racconto del malvagio prete che aiutava il malvagio poeta. Poi salì di corsa nella stanza del prete, in cui il prete aveva appena acceso una corta candela, che mostrava, di là, le finestre spalancate.

Fece giusto in tempo a vedere una sorta di rozza scala a pioli sganciata dal davanzale della finestra e arrotolata da un signore che rideva sul prato di sotto. Il signore che rideva era un signore alto e bruno, ed era accompagnato da una signora bionda ma ugualmente ridente. Questa volta il signor Rock non poté nemmeno consolarsi definendo isterico il riso di lei. Era troppo orribilmente genuino; e risuonava lungo i tortuosi vialetti del giardino mentre lei e il suo trovatore scomparivano nei bui boschetti.

Agar Rock volse verso il suo compagno un volto di giustizia finale e tremenda; come il Giorno del Giudizio.

«Ebbene, tutta l’America verrà a sapere di questo,» disse. «In parole povere, l’avete aiutata a fuggire con quell’amante dai capelli ricci.»

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, ‘I helped her to bolt with that curly - haired lover.’

‘You call yourself a minister of Jesus Christ,’ cried Rock, ‘and you boast of a crime.’

‘I have been mixed up with several crimes,’ said the priest gently. ‘Happily for once this is a story without a crime. This is a simple fire

• side idyll; that ends with a glow of domesticity.’

‘And ends with a rope - ladder instead of a rope,’ said Rock. ‘Isn’t she a married woman?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Father Brown.

‘Well, oughtn’t she to be with her husband?’ demanded Rock.

‘She is with her husband,’ said Father Brown.

The other was startled into anger. ‘You lie,’ he said. ‘The poor little man is still snoring in bed.’

‘You seem to know a lot about his private affairs,’ said Father Brown plaintively. ‘You could almost write a life of the Man with a Beard. The only thing you don’t seem ever to have found out about him is his name.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Rock. ‘His name is in the hotel book.’

‘I know it is,’ answered the priest, nodding gravely, ‘in very large letters; the name of Rudel Romanes. Hypatia Potter, who met him here, put her name boldly under his, when she meant to elope with him; and her husband put his name under that, when he pursued them to this place. He put it very close under hers, by way of protest. The Romanes (who has pots of money, as a popular misanthrope despising men) bribed the brutes in this hotel to bar and bolt it and keep the lawful husband out. And I, as you truly say, helped him to get in.’

When a man is told something that turns things upside - down; that the tail wags the dog; that the fish has caught the fisherman; that the earth goes round the moon; he takes some little time before he even asks seriously if it is true. He is still content with the consciousness that it is the opposite of the obvious truth. Rock said at last: ‘You don’t mean that little fellow is the romantic Rudel we’re always reading about; and that curly haired fellow is Mr Potter of Pittsburgh.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown. ‘I knew it the moment I clapped eyes on both of them. But I verified it afterwards.’

Rock ruminated for a time and said at last: ‘I suppose it’s barely possible you’re right. But how did you come to have such a notion, in the face of the facts?’

Father Brown looked rather abashed; subsided into a chair, and stared into vacancy, until a faint smile began to dawn on his round and rather foolish face.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘you see - the truth is, I’m not romantic.’

‘I don’t know what the devil you are,’ said Rock roughly.

‘Now you are romantic,’ said Father Brown helpfully. ‘For instance, you see somebody looking poetical, and you assume he is a poet. Do you know what the majority of poets look like? What a wild confusion was created by that coincidence of three good - looking aristocrats at the beginning of the nineteenth century: Byron and Goethe and Shelley! Believe me, in the common way, a man may write: “Beauty has laid her flaming lips on mine,” or whatever that chap wrote, without being himself particularly beautiful. Besides, do you realize how old a man generally is by the time his fame has filled the world? Watts painted Swinburne with a halo of hair; but Swinburne was bald before most of his last American or Australian admirers had heard of his hyacinthine locks. So was D’Annunzio. As a fact, Romanes still has rather a fine head, as you will see if you look at it closely; he looks like an intellectual man; and he is. Unfortunately, like a good many other intellectual men, he’s a fool. He’s let himself go to seed with selfishness and fussing about his digestion. So that the ambitious American lady, who thought it would be like soaring to Olympus with the Nine Muses to elope with a poet, found that a day or so of it was about enough for her. So that when her husband came after her, and stormed the place, she was delighted to go back to him.’

‘But her husband?’ queried Rock. ‘I am still rather puzzled about her husband.’

‘Ah, you’ve been reading too many of your erotic modern novels,’ said Father Brown; and partly closed his eyes in answer to the protesting glare of the other. ‘I know a lot of stories start with a wildly beautiful woman wedded to some elderly swine in the stock market. But why? In that, as in most things, modern novels are the very reverse of modern. I don’t say it never happens; but it hardly ever happens now except by her own fault. Girls nowadays marry whom they like; especially spoilt girls like Hypatia. And whom do they marry? A beautiful wealthy girl like that would have a ring of admirers; and whom would she choose? The chances are a hundred to one that she’d marry very young and choose the handsomest man she met at a dance or a tennis - party. Well, ordinary business men are sometimes handsome. A young god appeared (called Potter) and she wouldn’t care if he was a broker or a burglar. But, given the environment, you will admit it’s more likely he would be a broker; also, it’s quite likely that he’d be called Potter. You see, you are so incurably romantic that your whole case was founded on the idea that a man looking like a young god couldn’t be called Potter. Believe me, names are not so appropriately distributed.’

‘Well,’ said the other, after a short pause, ‘and what do you suppose happened after that?’

Father Brown got up rather abruptly from the seat in which he had collapsed; the candlelight threw the shadow of his short figure across the wall and ceiling, giving an odd impression that the balance of the room had been altered.

‘Ah,’ he muttered, ‘that’s the devil of it. That’s the real devil. Much worse than the old Indian demons in this jungle. You thought I was only making out a case for the loose ways of these Latin Americans - well, the queer thing about you’ - and he blinked owlishly at the other through his spectacles - ‘the queerest thing about you is that in a way you’re right.

«Sì,» disse Padre Brown, «l’ho aiutata a fuggire con quell’amante dai capelli ricci.»

«Vi definite un ministro di Gesù Cristo,» gridò Rock, «e vi vantate di un delitto.»

«Sono stato mescolato a parecchi delitti,» disse il prete dolcemente. «Per fortuna, questa volta è una storia senza delitto. È un semplice idillio da focolare; che si conclude con un tepore di domesticità.»

«E si conclude con una scala di corda invece che con una corda al collo,» disse Rock. «Non è forse una donna sposata?»

«Oh, sì,» disse Padre Brown.

«Ebbene, non dovrebbe stare con suo marito?» incalzò Rock.

«Sta con suo marito,» disse Padre Brown.

L’altro sobbalzò per l’ira. «Mentite,» disse. «Quel povero omino sta ancora russando a letto.»

«Pare che sappiate un mucchio di cose sui suoi affari privati,» disse Padre Brown lamentosamente. «Potreste quasi scrivere una vita dell’Uomo con la Barba. L’unica cosa che pare non abbiate mai scoperto su di lui è il suo nome.»

«Sciocchezze,» disse Rock. «Il suo nome è nel registro dell’albergo.»

«Lo so che c’è,» rispose il prete, annuendo gravemente, «in caratteri assai grandi; il nome di Rudel Romanes. Hypatia Potter, che lo incontrò qui, pose il proprio nome arditamente sotto il suo, quando intendeva fuggire con lui; e suo marito pose il proprio nome sotto quello, quando li inseguì fin qui. Lo pose molto stretto sotto il suo, a mo’ di protesta. Romanes (che ha barili di denaro, da popolare misantropo che disprezza gli uomini) corruppe le bestie di questo albergo perché lo sbarrassero e lo serrassero e tenessero fuori il legittimo marito. E io, come voi dite giustamente, l’ho aiutato a entrare.»

Quando a un uomo si dice qualcosa che rovescia le cose sottosopra; che è la coda a scodinzolare il cane; che è il pesce ad aver preso il pescatore; che è la terra a girare attorno alla luna; egli impiega un certo tempo prima ancora di chiedere seriamente se sia vero. È ancora appagato dalla consapevolezza che è l’opposto dell’ovvia verità. Rock disse infine: «Non vorrete dire che quell’omino è il romantico Rudel di cui leggiamo sempre; e che quel tizio dai capelli ricci è il signor Potter di Pittsburgh.»

«Sì,» disse Padre Brown. «L’ho capito nel momento stesso in cui ho posato gli occhi su entrambi. Ma l’ho verificato in seguito.»

Rock ruminò per un po’ e disse infine: «Suppongo sia appena possibile che abbiate ragione. Ma come siete arrivato a una simile idea, a dispetto dei fatti?»

Padre Brown parve piuttosto confuso; si lasciò sprofondare in una sedia, e fissò il vuoto, finché un debole sorriso cominciò ad albeggiare sul suo volto rotondo e piuttosto sciocco.

«Ebbene,» disse, «vedete… la verità è che io non sono romantico.»

«Non so che diavolo siate,» disse Rock rudemente.

«Voi, invece, siete romantico,» disse Padre Brown servizievolmente. «Per esempio, vedete qualcuno dall’aria poetica, e presumete che sia un poeta. Sapete che aspetto ha la maggioranza dei poeti? Che selvaggia confusione fu creata da quella coincidenza di tre bell’imbusti aristocratici agli inizi del diciannovesimo secolo: Byron e Goethe e Shelley! Credetemi, di solito un uomo può scrivere: ‘La Bellezza ha posato le sue labbra fiammeggianti sulle mie’, o qualunque cosa scrivesse quel tale, senza essere lui stesso particolarmente bello. E inoltre, vi rendete conto quanti anni ha generalmente un uomo nel tempo in cui la sua fama ha ormai riempito il mondo? Watts ritrasse Swinburne con un’aureola di capelli; ma Swinburne era calvo prima ancora che la maggior parte dei suoi ultimi ammiratori americani o australiani avesse sentito parlare delle sue chiome giacintee. E così pure D’Annunzio. In realtà Romanes ha ancora una testa piuttosto bella, come vedrete se la osservate da vicino; ha l’aspetto di un uomo intellettuale; e lo è. Sfortunatamente, come parecchi altri uomini intellettuali, è uno sciocco. Si è lasciato andare, inselvatichito dall’egoismo e dall’affannarsi attorno alla propria digestione. Sicché l’ambiziosa signora americana, che pensava sarebbe stato come librarsi verso l’Olimpo con le Nove Muse fuggire con un poeta, scoprì che un giorno o due di ciò le bastavano e avanzavano. Sicché, quando suo marito le venne dietro, e prese d’assalto il posto, ella fu ben lieta di tornare da lui.»

«Ma suo marito?» chiese Rock. «Sono ancora piuttosto perplesso riguardo a suo marito.»

«Ah, avete letto troppi dei vostri erotici romanzi moderni,» disse Padre Brown; e socchiuse gli occhi in risposta allo sguardo di protesta dell’altro. «So che un mucchio di storie cominciano con una donna selvaggiamente bella maritata a un qualche anziano porco della Borsa. Ma perché? In questo, come nella maggior parte delle cose, i romanzi moderni sono esattamente il rovescio del moderno. Non dico che non accada mai; ma ormai non accade quasi mai, se non per colpa di lei stessa. Le ragazze oggi sposano chi vogliono; specialmente le ragazze viziate come Hypatia. E chi sposano? Una bella e ricca ragazza come quella avrebbe un cerchio di ammiratori; e chi sceglierebbe? Ci sono cento probabilità contro una che sposi giovanissima e scelga l’uomo più bello che ha incontrato a un ballo o a una partita di tennis. Ebbene, gli uomini d’affari ordinari sono talvolta belli. Apparve un giovane dio (chiamato Potter) e a lei non importava se fosse un agente di cambio o uno scassinatore. Ma, dato l’ambiente, ammetterete che è più probabile che fosse un agente di cambio; e inoltre è del tutto probabile che si chiamasse Potter. Vedete, siete così inguaribilmente romantico che tutto il vostro ragionamento si fondava sull’idea che un uomo dall’aspetto di un giovane dio non potesse chiamarsi Potter. Credetemi, i nomi non sono distribuiti in modo così appropriato.»

«Ebbene,» disse l’altro, dopo una breve pausa, «e cosa supponete sia accaduto dopo di ciò?»

Padre Brown si alzò piuttosto bruscamente dal sedile in cui si era lasciato cadere; la luce della candela gettava l’ombra della sua bassa figura sulla parete e sul soffitto, dando la strana impressione che l’equilibrio della stanza fosse stato alterato.

«Ah,» mormorò, «questo è il diavolo della faccenda. Questo è il vero diavolo. Molto peggio dei vecchi demoni indiani di questa giungla. Voi pensavate che io stessi soltanto perorando la causa dei costumi disinvolti di questi Latinoamericani… ebbene, la cosa strana di voi» — e strizzò l’occhio con aria di gufo all’altro attraverso gli occhiali — «la cosa più strana di voi è che, in un certo senso, avete ragione.

‘You say down with romance. I say I’d take my chance in fighting the genuine romances - all the more because they are precious few, outside the first fiery days of youth. I say - take away the Intellectual Friendships; take away the Platonic Unions; take away the Higher Laws of Self - Fulfilment and the rest, and I’ll risk the normal dangers of the job. Take away the love that isn’t love, but only pride and vainglory and publicity and making a splash; and we’ll take our chance of fighting the love that is love, when it has to be fought, as well as the love that is lust and lechery. Priests know young people will have passions, as doctors know they will have measles. But Hypatia Potter is forty if she is a day, and she cares no more for that little poet than if he were her publisher or her publicity man. That’s just the point - he was her publicity man. It’s your newspapers that have ruined her; it’s living in the limelight; it’s wanting to see herself in the headlines, even in a scandal if it were only sufficiently psychic and superior. It’s wanting to be George Sand, her name immortally linked with Alfred de Musset. When her real romance of youth was over, it was the sin of middle age that got hold of her; the sin of intellectual ambition. She hasn’t got any intellect to speak of; but you don’t need any intellect to be an intellectual.’

‘I should say she was pretty brainy in one sense,’ observed Rock reflectively.

‘Yes, in one sense,’ said Father Brown. ‘In only one sense. In a business sense. Not in any sense that has anything to do with these poor lounging Dagos down here. You curse the Film Stars and tell me you hate romance. Do you suppose the Film Star, who is married for the fifth time, is misled by any romance? Such people are very practical; more practical than you are. You say you admire the simple solid Business Man. Do you suppose that Rudel Romanes isn’t a Business Man? Can’t you see he knew, quite as well as she did, the advertising advantages of this grand affair with a famous beauty. He also knew very well that his hold on it was pretty insecure; hence his fussing about and bribing servants to lock doors. But what I mean to say, first and last, is that there’d be a lot less scandal if people didn’t idealize sin and pose as sinners. These poor Mexicans may seem sometimes to live like beasts, or rather sin like men; but they don’t go in for Ideals. You must at least give them credit for that.’

He sat down again, as abruptly as he had risen, and laughed apologetically. ‘Well, Mr Rock,’ he said, ‘that is my complete confession; the whole horrible story of how I helped a romantic elopement. You can do what you like with it.’

‘In that case,’ said Rock, rising, ‘I will go to my room and make a few alterations in my report. But, first of all, I must ring up my paper and tell them I’ve been telling them a pack of lies.’

Not much more than half an hour had passed, between the time when Rock had telephoned to say the priest was helping the poet to run away with the lady, and the time when he telephoned to say that the priest had prevented the poet from doing precisely the same thing. But in that short interval of time was born and enlarged and scattered upon the winds the Scandal of Father Brown. The truth is still half an hour behind the slander; and nobody can be certain when or where it will catch up with it. The garrulity of pressmen and the eagerness of enemies had spread the first story through the city, even before it appeared in the first printed version. It was instantly corrected and contradicted by Rock himself, in a second message stating how the story had really ended; but it was by no means certain that the first story was killed. A positively incredible number of people seemed to have read the first issue of the paper and not the second. Again and again, in every corner of the world, like a flame bursting from blackened ashes, there would appear the old tale of the Brown Scandal, or Priest Ruins Potter Home. Tireless apologists of the priest’s party watched for it, and patiently tagged after it with contradictions and exposures and letters of protest. Sometimes the letters were published in the papers; and sometimes they were not. But still nobody knew how many people had heard the story without hearing the contradiction. It was possible to find whole blocks of blameless and innocent people who thought the Mexican Scandal was an ordinary recorded historical incident like the Gunpowder Plot. Then somebody would enlighten these simple people, only to discover that the old story had started afresh among a few quite educated people, who would seem the last people on earth to be duped by it. And so the two Father Browns chase each other round the world for ever; the first a shameless criminal fleeing from justice; the second a martyr broken by slander, in a halo of rehabilitation. But neither of them is very like the real Father Brown, who is not broken at all; but goes stumping with his stout umbrella through life, liking most of the people in it; accepting the world as his companion, but never as his judge.

«Voi dite: abbasso il romanticismo. Io dico che correrei il mio rischio combattendo i romanticismi genuini… tanto più che sono terribilmente pochi, al di fuori dei primi giorni ardenti della giovinezza. Io dico: togliete di mezzo le Amicizie Intellettuali; togliete di mezzo le Unioni Platoniche; togliete di mezzo le Leggi Superiori della Realizzazione del Sé e tutto il resto, e io affronterò i normali pericoli del mestiere. Togliete di mezzo l’amore che non è amore, ma soltanto orgoglio e vanagloria e pubblicità e voglia di far chiasso; e noi correremo il rischio di combattere l’amore che è amore, quando c’è da combatterlo, al pari dell’amore che è lussuria e libidine. I preti sanno che i giovani avranno le loro passioni, come i medici sanno che avranno il morbillo. Ma Hypatia Potter ha quarant’anni suonati, e non gliene importa di quel poetucolo più di quanto gliene importerebbe se fosse il suo editore o il suo agente pubblicitario. È proprio questo il punto: lui era il suo agente pubblicitario. Sono i vostri giornali che l’hanno rovinata; è il vivere sotto le luci della ribalta; è il voler vedere se stessa nei titoli di testa, sia pure in uno scandalo, purché sufficientemente psichico e superiore. È il voler essere George Sand, il suo nome immortalmente legato a quello di Alfred de Musset. Quando il suo vero romanzo di giovinezza fu finito, fu il peccato della mezza età a impadronirsi di lei; il peccato dell’ambizione intellettuale. Non ha alcun intelletto degno di nota; ma non occorre alcun intelletto per essere un’intellettuale.»

«Direi che, in un certo senso, era piuttosto sveglia di cervello,» osservò Rock riflessivamente.

«Sì, in un certo senso,» disse Padre Brown. «In un solo senso. In senso commerciale. In nessun senso che abbia qualcosa a che fare con questi poveri Dagos oziosi di quaggiù. Voi maledite le Dive del Cinema e mi dite che odiate il romanticismo. Credete forse che la Diva del Cinema, sposata per la quinta volta, sia fuorviata da un qualche romanticismo? Gente simile è assai pratica; più pratica di voi. Dite di ammirare il semplice e solido Uomo d’Affari. Credete forse che Rudel Romanes non sia un Uomo d’Affari? Non vedete che sapeva, altrettanto bene di lei, i vantaggi pubblicitari di questa grandiosa relazione con una famosa Bellezza? Sapeva anche molto bene che la sua presa su di essa era piuttosto malsicura; donde il suo affannarsi e corrompere i domestici perché chiudessero le porte. Ma ciò che intendo dire, prima e ultima cosa, è che ci sarebbe molto meno scandalo se la gente non idealizzasse il peccato e non si atteggiasse a peccatrice. Questi poveri Messicani possono talvolta sembrare vivere come bestie, o piuttosto peccare come uomini; ma non si danno agli Ideali. Dovete almeno riconoscere loro questo merito.»

Si sedette di nuovo, con la stessa bruschezza con cui si era alzato, e rise in tono di scusa. «Ebbene, signor Rock,» disse, «questa è la mia completa confessione; l’intera orribile storia di come aiutai una romantica fuga d’amore. Potete farne ciò che volete.»

«In tal caso,» disse Rock, alzandosi, «andrò nella mia stanza a fare qualche modifica al mio reportage. Ma, prima di tutto, devo telefonare al mio giornale e dir loro che ho raccontato un mucchio di menzogne.»

Non era passata molto più di una mezz’ora, tra il momento in cui Rock aveva telefonato per dire che il prete stava aiutando il poeta a fuggire con la signora, e il momento in cui telefonò per dire che il prete aveva impedito al poeta di fare esattamente la stessa cosa. Ma in quel breve intervallo di tempo nacque e s’ingrandì e fu sparso ai venti lo Scandalo di Padre Brown. La verità è ancora mezz’ora indietro rispetto alla calunnia; e nessuno può dire con certezza quando o dove la raggiungerà. La loquacità dei giornalisti e la bramosia dei nemici avevano diffuso la prima versione per tutta la città, perfino prima che comparisse nella prima edizione a stampa. Fu istantaneamente corretta e smentita da Rock stesso, in un secondo messaggio che riferiva come la storia si fosse davvero conclusa; ma non era affatto certo che la prima versione fosse morta. Un numero addirittura incredibile di persone pareva aver letto la prima edizione del giornale e non la seconda. Di continuo, in ogni angolo del mondo, come una fiamma che erompe da ceneri annerite, riappariva il vecchio racconto dello Scandalo Brown, o Un Prete Rovina la Casa Potter. Instancabili apologeti del partito del prete lo attendevano al varco, e pazientemente gli tenevano dietro con smentite e denunce e lettere di protesta. Talvolta le lettere venivano pubblicate sui giornali; e talvolta no. Ma ancora nessuno sapeva quante persone avessero udito la storia senza udire la smentita. Era possibile trovare interi isolati di persone irreprensibili e innocenti che credevano che lo Scandalo Messicano fosse un ordinario episodio storico documentato come la Congiura delle Polveri. Poi qualcuno avrebbe illuminato queste persone semplici, solo per scoprire che la vecchia storia era ricominciata daccapo tra alcune persone del tutto colte, che parevano essere le ultime al mondo a lasciarsi ingannare. E così i due Padre Brown si rincorrono per il mondo in eterno; il primo uno svergognato criminale in fuga dalla giustizia; il secondo un martire spezzato dalla calunnia, in un’aureola di riabilitazione. Ma nessuno dei due somiglia molto al vero Padre Brown, il quale non è affatto spezzato; ma va arrancando col suo robusto ombrello attraverso la vita, provando simpatia per la maggior parte delle persone che vi incontra; accettando il mondo come proprio compagno, ma mai come proprio giudice.

TWO: The Quick One

The strange story of the incongruous strangers is still remembered along that strip of the Sussex coast, where the large and quiet hotel called the Maypole and Garland looks across its own gardens to the sea. Two quaintly assorted figures did, indeed, enter that quiet hotel on that sunny afternoon; one being conspicuous in the sunlight, and visible over the whole shore, by the fact of wearing a lustrous green turban, surrounding a brown face and a black beard; the other would have seemed to some even more wild and weird, by reason of his wearing a soft black clergyman’s hat with a yellow moustache and yellow hair of leonine length. He at least had often been seen preaching on the sands or conducting Band of Hope services with a little wooden spade; only he had certainly never been seen going into the bar of an hotel. The arrival of these quaint companions was the climax of the story, but not the beginning of it; and, in order to make a rather mysterious story as clear as possible, it is better to begin at the beginning.

Half an hour before those two conspicuous figures entered the hotel, and were noticed by everybody, two other very inconspicuous figures had also entered it, and been noticed by nobody. One was a large man, and handsome in a heavy style, but he had a knack of taking up very little room, like a background; only an almost morbidly suspicious examination of his boots would have told anybody that he was an Inspector of Police in plain clothes; in very plain clothes. The other was a drab and insignificant little man, also in plain clothes, only that they happened to be clerical clothes; but nobody had ever seen him preaching on the sands.

These travellers also found themselves in a sort of large smoking - room with a bar, for a reason which determined all the events of that tragic afternoon. The truth is that the respectable hotel called the Maypole and Garland was being ‘done - up’. Those who had liked it in the past were moved to say that it was being done down; or possibly done in. This was the opinion of the local grumbler, Mr Raggley, the eccentric old gentleman who drank cherry brandy in a corner and cursed. Anyhow, it was being carefully stripped of all the stray indications that it had once been an English inn; and being busily turned, yard by yard and room by room, into something resembling the sham palace of a Levantine usurer in an American film. It was, in short, being ‘decorated’; but the only part where the decoration was complete, and where customers could yet be made comfortable, was this large room leading out of the hall. It had once been honourably known as a Bar Parlour and was now mysteriously known as a Saloon Lounge, and was newly ‘decorated’, in the manner of an Asiatic Divan. For Oriental ornament pervaded the new scheme; and where there had once been a gun hung on hooks, and sporting prints and a stuffed fish in a glass case, there were now festoons of Eastern drapery and trophies of scimitars, tulwards and yataghans, as if in unconscious preparation for the coming of the gentleman with the turban. The practical point was, however, that the few guests who did arrive had to be shepherded into this lounge, now swept and garnished, because all the more regular and refined parts of the hotel were still in a state of transition. Perhaps that was also the reason why even those few guests were somewhat neglected, the manager and others being occupied with explanations or exhortations elsewhere. Anyhow, the first two travellers who arrived had to kick their heels for some time unattended. The bar was at the moment entirely empty, and the Inspector rang and rapped impatiently on the counter; but the little clergyman had already dropped into a lounge seat and seemed in no hurry for anything. Indeed his friend the policeman, turning his head, saw that the round face of the little cleric had gone quite blank, as it had a way of doing sometimes; he seemed to be staring through his moonlike spectacles at the newly decorated wall.

‘I may as well offer you a penny for your thoughts,’ said Inspector Greenwood, turning from the counter with a sigh, ‘as nobody seems to want my pennies for anything else. This seems to be the only room in the house that isn’t full of ladders and whitewash; and this is so empty that there isn’t even a potboy to give me a pot of beer.’

‘Oh … my thoughts are not worth a penny, let alone a pot of beer,’ answered the cleric, wiping his spectacles, ‘I don’t know why … but I was thinking how easy it would be to commit a murder here.’

‘It’s all very well for you. Father Brown,’ said the Inspector good - humouredly. ‘You’ve had a lot more murders than your fair share; and we poor policemen sit starving all our lives, even for a little one. But why should you say … Oh I see, you’re looking at all those Turkish daggers on the wall. There are plenty of things to commit a murder with, if that’s what you mean. But not more than there are in any ordinary kitchen: carving knives or pokers or what not. That isn’t where the snag of a murder comes in.’

Father Brown seemed to recall his rambling thoughts in some bewilderment; and said that he supposed so.

‘Murder is always easy,’ said Inspector Greenwood. ‘There can’t possibly be anything more easy than murder. I could murder you at this minute - more easily than I can get a drink in this damned bar. The only difficulty is committing a murder without committing oneself as a murderer. It’s this shyness about owning up to a murder; it’s this silly modesty of murderers about their own masterpieces, that makes the trouble. They will stick to this extraordinary fixed idea of killing people without being found out; and that’s what restrains them, even in a room full of daggers. Otherwise every cutler’s shop would be piled with corpses. And that, by the way, explains the one kind of murder that really can’t be prevented. Which is why, of course, we poor bobbies are always blamed for not preventing it. When a madman murders a King or a President, it can’t be prevented. You can’t make a King live in a coal - cellar, or carry about a President in a steel box. Anybody can murder him who does not mind being a murderer. That is where the madman is like the martyr - sort of beyond this world. A real fanatic can always kill anybody he likes.’

DUE: Lo Svelto

La strana storia degli sconosciuti male assortiti si ricorda ancora lungo quel tratto di costa del Sussex, dove il grande e tranquillo albergo detto il Maypole and Garland guarda, oltre i propri giardini, verso il mare. Due figure stranamente assortite entrarono davvero in quel tranquillo albergo in quel pomeriggio assolato; l’una cospicua nel sole, e visibile lungo tutta la spiaggia, per il fatto di portare un lucente turbante verde, che incorniciava un volto bruno e una barba nera; l’altra sarebbe parsa a taluni ancora più stramba e sinistra, per via del molle cappello nero da ecclesiastico, dei baffi biondi e dei capelli biondi lunghi come una criniera leonina. Costui almeno era stato spesso visto predicare sulla sabbia o dirigere le funzioni della Band of Hope con una piccola vanga di legno; solo che di sicuro non lo si era mai visto entrare nel bar di un albergo. L’arrivo di questi curiosi compari fu il culmine della storia, ma non il suo principio; e, per rendere quanto più chiara possibile una storia alquanto misteriosa, è meglio cominciare dal principio.

Mezz’ora prima che quelle due figure cospicue entrassero nell’albergo, e venissero notate da tutti, altre due figure assai poco cospicue vi erano pure entrate, e non erano state notate da nessuno. Uno era un uomo grosso, e bello di una bellezza pesante, ma aveva la dote di occupare pochissimo spazio, come uno sfondo; soltanto un esame quasi morbosamente sospettoso dei suoi stivali avrebbe rivelato a chiunque che era un Ispettore di Polizia in borghese; in borghese dimessissima. L’altro era un ometto scialbo e insignificante, anch’egli in abiti dimessi, se non che i suoi abiti erano di taglio clericale; ma nessuno lo aveva mai visto predicare sulla sabbia.

Anche questi viaggiatori si ritrovarono in una sorta di ampia sala per fumatori con annesso il bar, per una ragione che determinò tutti gli avvenimenti di quel tragico pomeriggio. La verità è che il rispettabile albergo detto il Maypole and Garland era in fase di «rimessa a nuovo». Quanti in passato lo avevano amato erano indotti a dire che lo stavano rimettendo a terra; o forse rimettendo del tutto. Tale era l’opinione del brontolone locale, il signor Raggley, l’eccentrico vecchio signore che sedeva in un angolo bevendo cherry brandy e imprecando. Comunque sia, lo si stava accuratamente spogliando di ogni traccia sparsa che indicasse che era stato un tempo una locanda inglese; e lo si andava alacremente trasformando, metro per metro e stanza per stanza, in qualcosa che somigliava al finto palazzo di un usuraio levantino in un film americano. Insomma, lo si stava «decorando»; ma l’unica parte in cui la decorazione fosse compiuta, e in cui i clienti potessero ancora essere sistemati con qualche agio, era questa grande sala che si apriva sull’atrio. Un tempo era stata onorevolmente nota come Sala del Bar ed era ora misteriosamente nota come Saloon Lounge, ed era stata da poco «decorata» alla maniera di un divano asiatico. Ché l’ornamento orientale pervadeva il nuovo assetto; e dove un tempo pendeva a due ganci un fucile, e stampe di caccia e un pesce impagliato in una teca di vetro, c’erano adesso festoni di drappeggi orientali e trofei di scimitarre, tulwar e yatagan, quasi in inconsapevole preparazione all’arrivo del signore col turbante. Il punto pratico, tuttavia, era che i pochi ospiti effettivamente giunti dovevano essere sospinti in questa sala, ora spazzata e adorna, perché tutte le parti più regolari e raffinate dell’albergo erano ancora in stato di transizione. Forse era anche questa la ragione per cui persino quei pochi ospiti venivano un po’ trascurati, essendo il direttore e gli altri occupati altrove in spiegazioni o esortazioni. Comunque sia, i primi due viaggiatori giunti dovettero battere i tacchi per un certo tempo senza essere serviti. Il bar era in quel momento del tutto vuoto, e l’Ispettore suonò e batté con impazienza sul bancone; ma il piccolo prete si era già lasciato cadere in una poltrona e non pareva aver fretta di nulla. Anzi, il suo amico poliziotto, girando il capo, vide che il volto tondo del piccolo ecclesiastico era diventato completamente vacuo, come gli capitava talvolta; pareva fissare, attraverso i suoi occhiali lunari, la parete appena decorata.

«Tanto vale che vi offra un soldo per i vostri pensieri», disse l’Ispettore Greenwood, voltandosi dal bancone con un sospiro, «visto che nessuno pare volere i miei soldi per nient’altro. Questa sembra l’unica stanza della casa che non sia piena di scale e di calce; ed è tanto vuota che non c’è nemmeno un garzone che mi porti un boccale di birra.»

«Oh… i miei pensieri non valgono un soldo, tanto meno un boccale di birra», rispose l’ecclesiastico, forbendosi gli occhiali. «Non so perché… ma stavo pensando a quanto sarebbe facile commettere un omicidio qui.»

«Voi potete ben dirlo, Father Brown», disse l’Ispettore con bonaria allegria. «Avete avuto molti più omicidi della vostra giusta parte; e noi poveri poliziotti passiamo la vita affamati, anche solo di un omicidio da poco. Ma perché mai dovreste dire… Oh, capisco, state guardando tutti quei pugnali turchi appesi al muro. Ci sono cose in abbondanza per commettere un omicidio, se è questo che intendete. Ma non più che in una qualunque cucina: coltelli da trinciare o attizzatoi o che so io. Non è lì che sta l’intoppo di un omicidio.»

Father Brown parve richiamare i suoi pensieri vaganti con un certo smarrimento; e disse che supponeva di sì.

«L’omicidio è sempre facile», disse l’Ispettore Greenwood. «Non può esserci al mondo nulla di più facile dell’omicidio. Potrei ammazzarvi in questo istante, più facilmente di quanto riesca a farmi servire da bere in questo maledetto bar. L’unica difficoltà è commettere un omicidio senza compromettersi come assassino. È questa ritrosia nel confessare un omicidio; è questa sciocca modestia degli assassini riguardo ai propri capolavori a creare il guaio. Si intestardiscono su questa straordinaria idea fissa di uccidere la gente senza essere scoperti; ed è questo che li trattiene, persino in una stanza piena di pugnali. Altrimenti ogni bottega di coltellinaio sarebbe piena di cadaveri. E questo, per inciso, spiega l’unica specie di omicidio che davvero non si può impedire. Ed è per questo, naturalmente, che noi poveri sbirri veniamo sempre incolpati di non averlo impedito. Quando un pazzo assassina un re o un Presidente, non lo si può impedire. Non si può far vivere un re in una cantina del carbone, né portarsi in giro un Presidente in una cassa d’acciaio. Chiunque non abbia riguardo a diventare assassino può ucciderlo. È in questo che il pazzo è simile al martire: come al di là di questo mondo. Un vero fanatico può sempre uccidere chi gli pare.»

Before the priest could reply, a joyous band of bagmen rolled into the room like a shoal of porpoises; and the magnificent bellow of a big, beaming man, with an equally big and beaming tie - pin, brought the eager and obsequious manager running like a dog to the whistle, with a rapidity which the police in plain clothes had failed to inspire.

‘I’m sure I’m very sorry, Mr Jukes,’ said the manager, who wore a rather agitated smile and a wave or curl of very varnished hair across his forehead. ‘We’re rather understaffed at present; and I had to attend to something in the hotel, Mr Jukes.’

Mr Jukes was magnanimous, but in a noisy way; and ordered drinks all round, conceding one even to the almost cringing manager. Mr Jukes was a traveller for a very famous and fashionable wine and spirits firm; and may have conceived himself as lawfully the leader in such a place. Anyhow, he began a boisterous monologue, rather tending to tell the manager how to manage his hotel; and the others seemed to accept him as an authority. The policeman and the priest had retired to a low bench and small table in the background, from which they watched events, up to that rather remarkable moment when the policeman had very decisively to intervene.

For the next thing that happened, as already narrated, was the astonishing apparition of a brown Asiatic in a green turban, accompanied by the (if possible) more astonishing apparition of a Noncomformist minister; omens such as appear before a doom. In this case there was no doubt about evidence for the portent. A taciturn but observant boy cleaning the steps for the last hour (being a leisurely worker), the dark, fat, bulky bar - attendant, even the diplomatic but distracted manager, all bore witness to the miracle.

The apparitions, as the sceptics say, were due to perfectly natural causes. The man with the mane of yellow hair and the semi - clerical clothes was not only familiar as a preacher on the sands, but as a propagandist throughout the modern world. He was no less a person than the Rev. David Pryce - Jones, whose far - resounding slogan was Prohibition and Purification for Our Land and the Britains Overseas. He as an excellent public speaker and organizer; and an idea had occurred to him that ought to have occurred to Prohibitionists long ago. It was the simple idea that, if Prohibition is right, some honour is due to the Prophet who was perhaps the first Prohibitionist. He had corresponded with the leaders of Mahommedan religious thought, and had finally induced a distinguished Moslem (one of whose names was Akbar and the rest an untranslatable ululation of Allah with attributes) to come and lecture in England on the ancient Moslem veto on wine. Neither of them certainly had been in a public - house bar before; but they had come there by the process already described; driven from the genteel tea - rooms, shepherded into the newly - decorated saloon. Probably all would have been well, if the great Prohibitionist, in his innocence, had not advanced to the counter and asked for a glass of milk.

The commercial travellers, though a kindly race, emitted involuntary noises of pain; a murmur of suppressed jests was heard, as ‘Shun the bowl,’ or ‘Better bring out the cow’. But the magnificent Mr Jukes, feeling it due to his wealth and tie - pin to produce more refined humour, fanned himself as one about to faint, and said pathetically: ‘They know they can knock me down with a feather. They know a breath will blow me away. They know my doctor says I’m not to have these shocks. And they come and drink cold milk in cold blood, before my very eyes.’

The Rev. David Pryce - Jones, accustomed to deal with hecklers at public meetings, was so unwise as to venture on remonstrance and recrimination, in this very different and much more popular atmosphere. The Oriental total abstainer abstained from speech as well as spirits; and certainly gained in dignity by doing so. In fact, so far as he was concerned, the Moslem culture certainly scored a silent victory; he was obviously so much more of a gentleman than the commercial gentlemen, that a faint irritation began to arise against his aristocratic aloofness; and when Mr Pryce - Jones began to refer in argument to something of the kind, the tension became very acute indeed.

‘I ask you, friends,’ said Mr Pryce - Jones, with expansive platform gestures, ‘why does our friend here set an example to us Christians in truly Christian self - control and brotherhood? Why does he stand here as a model of true Christianity, of real refinement, of genuine gentlemanly behaviour, amid all the quarrels and riots of such places as these? Because, whatever the doctrinal differences between us, at least in his soil the evil plant, the accursed hop or vine, has never - ’

At this crucial moment of the controversy it was that John Raggley, the stormy petrel of a hundred storms of controversy, red - faced, white - haired, his antiquated top - hat on the back of his head, his stick swinging like a club, entered the house like an invading army.

John Raggley was generally regarded as a crank. He was the sort of man who writes letters to the newspaper, which generally do not appear in the newspaper; but which do appear afterwards as pamphlets, printed (or misprinted) at his own expense; and circulated to a hundred waste - paper baskets. He had quarrelled alike with the Tory squires and the Radical County Councils; he hated Jews; and he distrusted nearly everything that is sold in shops, or even in hotels. But there was a backing of facts behind his fads; he knew the county in every corner and curious detail; and he was a sharp observer. Even the manager, a Mr Wills, had a shadowy respect for Mr Raggley, having a nose for the sort of lunacy allowed in the gentry; not indeed the prostrate reverence which he had for the jovial magnificence of Mr Jukes, who was really good for trade, but a least a disposition to avoid quarrelling with the old grumbler, partly perhaps out of fear of the old grumbler’s tongue.

Prima che il prete potesse rispondere, una gioiosa brigata di commessi viaggiatori irruppe nella stanza come un branco di focene; e il magnifico muggito di un uomo grande e raggiante, con una spilla da cravatta altrettanto grande e raggiante, fece accorrere il direttore, sollecito e ossequioso, come un cane al fischio, con una prontezza che la polizia in borghese non era riuscita a ispirare.

«Sono davvero mortificato, signor Jukes», disse il direttore, che sfoggiava un sorriso alquanto agitato e un’onda o ricciolo di capelli lucidissimi di brillantina sulla fronte. «Al momento siamo un po’ a corto di personale; e ho dovuto occuparmi di una cosa nell’albergo, signor Jukes.»

Il signor Jukes fu magnanimo, ma in maniera chiassosa; e ordinò da bere per tutti, concedendone un bicchiere persino al direttore quasi servile. Il signor Jukes era rappresentante di una ditta di vini e liquori assai famosa e alla moda; e poteva essersi immaginato come il capo di diritto in un luogo simile. Comunque sia, attaccò un monologo turbolento, incline piuttosto a insegnare al direttore come mandare avanti il suo albergo; e gli altri parevano accettarlo come un’autorità. Il poliziotto e il prete si erano ritirati su una bassa panca e a un tavolino sullo sfondo, da cui osservavano gli eventi, fino a quel momento alquanto notevole in cui il poliziotto dovette intervenire in modo assai risoluto.

Ché la cosa che accadde in seguito, come già narrato, fu la sbalorditiva apparizione di un asiatico bruno con un turbante verde, accompagnata dalla (se possibile) ancor più sbalorditiva apparizione di un ministro anticonformista; presagi come ne compaiono davanti a una sciagura. In questo caso non ci fu alcun dubbio sulla testimonianza del portento. Un ragazzo taciturno ma attento, intento da un’ora a pulire i gradini (essendo un lavoratore senza fretta), il bruno, grasso e corpulento addetto al bar, persino il diplomatico ma distratto direttore, tutti resero testimonianza del miracolo.

Le apparizioni, come dicono gli scettici, erano dovute a cause del tutto naturali. L’uomo dalla criniera di capelli biondi e dagli abiti semiclericali non era noto soltanto come predicatore sulla sabbia, ma come propagandista in tutto il mondo moderno. Non era altri che il reverendo David Pryce-Jones, il cui slogan risuonava lontano: Proibizione e Purificazione per la Nostra Terra e per le Britannie d’Oltremare. Era un eccellente oratore e organizzatore pubblico; e gli era venuta un’idea che sarebbe dovuta venire ai proibizionisti già da un pezzo. Era la semplice idea che, se la Proibizione è giusta, un qualche onore è dovuto al Profeta che fu forse il primo proibizionista. Aveva intrattenuto corrispondenza con i capi del pensiero religioso maomettano, e aveva finalmente indotto un illustre musulmano (uno dei cui nomi era Akbar e il resto un’intraducibile ululazione di Allah con i suoi attributi) a venire in Inghilterra a tenere conferenze sull’antico divieto musulmano del vino. Nessuno dei due era stato di certo, prima d’allora, nel bar di una locanda pubblica; ma vi erano giunti per il procedimento già descritto; scacciati dalle raffinate sale da tè, sospinti nel saloon appena decorato. Probabilmente tutto sarebbe andato per il meglio, se il grande proibizionista, nella sua innocenza, non si fosse avanzato al bancone a chiedere un bicchiere di latte.

I commessi viaggiatori, benché fossero una razza bonaria, emisero involontari suoni di dolore; si udì un mormorio di frizzi soffocati, come «Fuggi la coppa» o «Meglio portar fuori la mucca». Ma il magnifico signor Jukes, sentendosi in dovere, per la sua ricchezza e la sua spilla da cravatta, di produrre un umorismo più raffinato, si sventolò come chi stia per svenire, e disse in tono patetico: «Sanno che basterebbe una piuma a buttarmi giù. Sanno che un soffio mi porterebbe via. Sanno che il mio medico mi ha proibito questi colpi. E vengono a bere latte freddo a sangue freddo, sotto i miei stessi occhi.»

Il reverendo David Pryce-Jones, avvezzo a trattare con i disturbatori nelle pubbliche adunanze, ebbe l’imprudenza di avventurarsi in rimostranze e recriminazioni, in quest’atmosfera tanto diversa e assai più popolare. L’orientale astemio si astenne dalla parola non meno che dai liquori; e ne guadagnò di certo in dignità. Anzi, per quanto lo riguardava, la cultura musulmana riportò senza dubbio una silenziosa vittoria; era così palesemente più signore dei signori commercianti, che cominciò a sorgere una lieve irritazione contro il suo aristocratico distacco; e quando il signor Pryce-Jones prese ad accennarvi nell’argomentare, la tensione si fece davvero acutissima.

«Vi domando, amici», disse il signor Pryce-Jones, con ampi gesti da palcoscenico, «perché il nostro amico qui presente dà a noi cristiani l’esempio di un autentico autocontrollo cristiano e di fratellanza? Perché sta qui come modello di vera Cristianità, di autentica raffinatezza, di genuino contegno signorile, in mezzo a tutti i litigi e i tumulti di luoghi come questo? Perché, quali che siano le differenze dottrinali tra noi, almeno nel suo suolo la mala pianta, il maledetto luppolo o la vite, non ha mai…»

Fu in questo momento cruciale della controversia che John Raggley, la procellaria di cento tempeste di controversie, la faccia rossa, i capelli bianchi, l’antiquata tuba spinta all’indietro sulla nuca, il bastone roteante come una clava, entrò nella casa come un esercito invasore.

John Raggley era generalmente considerato uno svitato. Era il genere d’uomo che scrive lettere ai giornali, le quali di regola non compaiono sui giornali; ma che compaiono poi come opuscoli, stampati (o mal stampati) a sue spese; e diffusi a un centinaio di cestini della carta straccia. Aveva litigato tanto con gli squire conservatori quanto con i Consigli di Contea radicali; odiava gli ebrei; e diffidava di quasi tutto ciò che si vende nelle botteghe, o persino negli alberghi. Ma dietro le sue fisime c’era un fondamento di fatti; conosceva la contea in ogni angolo e in ogni curioso particolare; ed era un osservatore acuto. Persino il direttore, un tal signor Wills, nutriva un ombroso rispetto per il signor Raggley, avendo naso per il genere di follia consentita ai possidenti; non già la prostrata reverenza che aveva per la gioviale magnificenza del signor Jukes, che era davvero buono per gli affari, ma almeno una disposizione a evitare di litigare col vecchio brontolone, in parte forse per paura della lingua del vecchio brontolone.

‘And you will have your usual, Sir,’ said Mr Wills, leaning and leering across the counter.

‘It’s the only decent stuff you’ve still got,’ snorted Mr Raggley, slapping down his queer and antiquated hat. ‘Damn it, I sometimes think the only English thing left in England is cherry brandy. Cherry brandy does taste of cherries. Can you find me any beer that tastes of hops, or any cider that tastes of apples, or any wine that has the remotest indication of being made out of grapes? There’s an infernal swindle going on now in every inn in the country, that would have raised a revolution in any other country. I’ve found out a thing or two about it, I can tell you. You wait till I can get it printed, and people will sit up. If I could stop our people being poisoned with all this bad drink - ’

Here again the Rev. David Pryce - Jones showed a certain failure in tact; though it was a virtue he almost worshipped. He was so unwise as to attempt to establish an alliance with Mr Raggley, by a fine confusion between the idea of bad drink and the idea that drink is bad. Once more he endeavoured to drag his stiff and stately Eastern friend into the argument, as a refined foreigner superior to our rough English ways. He was even so foolish as to talk of a broad theological outlook; and ultimately to mention the name of Mahomet, which was echoed in a sort of explosion.

‘God damn your soul!’ roared Mr Raggley, with a less broad theological outlook. ‘Do you mean that Englishmen mustn’t drink English beer, because wine was forbidden in a damned desert by that dirty old humbug Mahomet?’

In an instant the Inspector of Police had reached the middle of the room with a stride. For, the instant before that, a remarkable change had taken place in the demeanour of the Oriental gentleman, who had hitherto stood perfectly still, with steady and shining eyes. He now proceeded, as his friend had said, to set an example in truly Christian self - control and brotherhood by reaching the wall with the bound of a tiger, tearing down one of the heavy knives hanging there and sending it smack like a stone from a sling, so that it stuck quivering in the wall exactly half an inch above Mr Raggley’s ear. It would undoubtedly have stuck quivering in Mr Raggley, if Inspector Greenwood had not been just in time to jerk the arm and deflect the aim. Father Brown continued in his seat, watching the scene with screwed - up eyes and a screw of something almost like a smile at the corners of his mouth, as if he saw something beyond the mere momentary violence of the quarrel.

And then the quarrel took a curious turn; which may not be understood by everybody, until men like Mr John Raggley are better understood than they are. For the red - faced old fanatic was standing up and laughing uproariously as if it were the best joke he had ever heard. All his snapping vituperation and bitterness seemed to have gone out of him; and he regarded the other fanatic, who had just tried to murder him, with a sort of boisterous benevolence.

‘Blast your eyes,’ he said, ‘you’re the first man I’ve met in twenty years!’

‘Do you charge this man, Sir?’ said the Inspector, looking doubtful.

‘Charge him, of course not,’ said Raggley. ‘I’d stand him a drink if he were allowed any drinks. I hadn’t any business to insult his religion; and I wish to God all you skunks had the guts to kill a man, I won’t say for insulting your religion, because you haven’t got any, but for insulting anything - even your beer.’

‘Now he’s called us all skunks,’ said Father Brown to Greenwood, ‘peace and harmony seem to be restored. I wish that teetotal lecturer could get himself impaled on his friend’s knife; it was he who made all the mischief.’

As he spoke, the odd groups in the room were already beginning to break up; it had been found possible to clear the commercial room for the commercial travellers, and they adjourned to it, the potboy carrying a new round of drinks after them on a tray. Father Brown stood for a moment gazing at the glasses left on the counter; recognizing at once the ill - omened glass of milk, and another which smelt of whisky; and then turned just in time to see the parting between those two quaint figures, fanatics of the East and West. Raggley was still ferociously genial; there was still something a little darkling and sinister about the Moslem, which was perhaps natural; but he bowed himself out with grave gestures of dignified reconciliation; and there was every indication that the trouble was really over.

Some importance, however, continued attached, in the mind of Father Brown at least, to the memory and interpretation of those last courteous salutes between the combatants. Because curiously enough, when Father Brown came down very early next morning, to perform his religious duties in the neighbourhood, he found the long saloon bar, with its fantastic Asiatic decoration, filled with a dead white light of daybreak in which every detail was distinct; and one of the details was the dead body of John Raggley bent and crushed into a corner of the room, with the heavy

• hilted crooked dagger rammed through his heart.

Father Brown went very softly upstairs again and summoned his friend the Inspector; and the two stood beside the corpse, in a house in which no one else was as yet stirring. ‘We mustn’t either assume or avoid the obvious,’ said Greenwood after a silence, ‘but it is well to remember, I think, what I was saying to you yesterday afternoon. It’s rather odd, by the way, that I should have said it - yesterday afternoon.’

‘I know,’ said the priest, nodding with an owlish stare.

‘I said,’ observed Greenwood, ‘that the one sort of murder we can’t stop is murder by somebody like a religious fanatic. That brown fellow probably thinks that if he’s hanged, he’ll go straight to Paradise for defending the honour of the Prophet.’

«E voi vorrete il vostro solito, signore», disse il signor Wills, chinandosi e sogghignando attraverso il bancone.

«È l’unica cosa decente che vi sia rimasta», sbuffò il signor Raggley, sbattendo giù il suo strano e antiquato cappello. «Che diavolo, a volte penso che l’unica cosa inglese rimasta in Inghilterra sia il cherry brandy. Il cherry brandy sa davvero di ciliegie. Sapreste trovarmi una birra che sappia di luppolo, o un sidro che sappia di mele, o un vino che abbia la più remota indicazione di essere fatto d’uva? C’è un’infernale truffa in corso, oggigiorno, in ogni locanda del paese, che in qualunque altro paese avrebbe suscitato una rivoluzione. Ho scoperto un paio di cose in proposito, ve lo garantisco. Aspettate che riesca a stamparle, e la gente si drizzerà a sedere. Se potessi impedire che il nostro popolo venga avvelenato con tutto questo pessimo bere…»

Anche qui il reverendo David Pryce-Jones diede prova di una certa mancanza di tatto; sebbene fosse una virtù che quasi venerava. Ebbe l’imprudenza di tentare di stringere un’alleanza col signor Raggley, mediante una bella confusione tra l’idea del cattivo bere e l’idea che il bere sia cattivo. Ancora una volta si sforzò di trascinare nell’argomento il suo rigido e maestoso amico orientale, quale raffinato straniero superiore ai nostri rozzi costumi inglesi. Fu perfino tanto sciocco da parlare di una vasta visione teologica; e da menzionare infine il nome di Maometto, che fu riecheggiato in una sorta di esplosione.

«Che Dio maledica la vostra anima!» ruggì il signor Raggley, con una visione teologica assai meno vasta. «Volete forse dire che gli inglesi non devono bere birra inglese, perché il vino fu proibito in un maledetto deserto da quel sudicio vecchio impostore di Maometto?»

In un istante l’Ispettore di Polizia aveva raggiunto con una falcata il centro della stanza. Ché, l’istante prima, un notevole mutamento si era prodotto nel contegno del signore orientale, il quale fino allora era rimasto perfettamente immobile, con occhi fermi e lucenti. Ora egli procedette, come aveva detto il suo amico, a dare esempio di autentico autocontrollo cristiano e di fratellanza raggiungendo la parete con un balzo di tigre, strappandone uno dei pesanti coltelli che vi pendevano e lanciandolo di schianto come un sasso da una fionda, sicché rimase conficcato vibrante nel muro esattamente mezzo pollice sopra l’orecchio del signor Raggley. Sarebbe rimasto senza dubbio conficcato vibrante nel signor Raggley, se l’Ispettore Greenwood non fosse giunto giusto in tempo a strattonargli il braccio e deviarne la mira. Father Brown rimase seduto al suo posto, osservando la scena con gli occhi socchiusi e una piega di qualcosa che assomigliava quasi a un sorriso agli angoli della bocca, come se scorgesse qualcosa al di là della mera, momentanea violenza della lite.

E allora la lite prese una piega curiosa; che forse non sarà compresa da tutti, finché uomini come il signor John Raggley non saranno compresi meglio di quanto lo siano ora. Ché il vecchio fanatico dalla faccia rossa era in piedi e rideva fragorosamente come se fosse la migliore barzelletta che avesse mai udito. Tutta la sua mordace maldicenza e la sua amarezza parevano essere svanite; ed egli guardava l’altro fanatico, che aveva appena tentato di assassinarlo, con una sorta di chiassosa benevolenza.

«Che vi si accechino gli occhi», disse, «siete il primo uomo che incontro in vent’anni!»

«Lo denunciate quest’uomo, signore?» disse l’Ispettore, con aria dubbiosa.

«Denunciarlo, ma neanche per sogno», disse Raggley. «Gli offrirei da bere, se gli fosse permesso di bere. Non avevo alcun diritto di insultare la sua religione; e vorrei Dio che tutti voi puzzole aveste il fegato di uccidere un uomo, non dico per aver insultato la vostra religione, perché non ne avete alcuna, ma per aver insultato qualsiasi cosa… persino la vostra birra.»

«Ora ci ha chiamati tutti puzzole», disse Father Brown a Greenwood, «pace e armonia paiono ristabilite. Vorrei che quel conferenziere astemio si facesse infilzare sul coltello del suo amico; è stato lui a combinare tutti i guai.»

Mentre parlava, gli strani gruppi nella stanza stavano già cominciando a disperdersi; si era trovato modo di liberare la sala commerciale per i commessi viaggiatori, e questi vi si trasferirono, il garzone recando loro dietro su un vassoio un nuovo giro di bevande. Father Brown rimase un momento a contemplare i bicchieri lasciati sul bancone; riconoscendo subito il malaugurato bicchiere di latte, e un altro che sapeva di whisky; e poi si voltò giusto in tempo per vedere il commiato fra quelle due curiose figure, fanatici d’Oriente e d’Occidente. Raggley era ancora ferocemente gioviale; c’era ancora qualcosa di un po’ fosco e sinistro nel musulmano, il che era forse naturale; ma questi si accomiatò con gravi gesti di dignitosa riconciliazione; e tutto lasciava indicare che la contesa era davvero finita.

Una certa importanza, tuttavia, rimase legata, nella mente almeno di Padre Brown, al ricordo e all’interpretazione di quegli ultimi cortesi saluti tra i contendenti. Perché, cosa abbastanza curiosa, quando Padre Brown scese di buon mattino l’indomani, per compiere i suoi doveri religiosi nei dintorni, trovò il lungo bar del saloon, con la sua fantastica decorazione asiatica, colmo della bianca luce morta dell’alba, in cui ogni particolare era distinto; e uno dei particolari era il corpo morto di John Raggley, piegato e schiacciato in un angolo della stanza, con il pesante pugnale ricurvo dall’impugnatura massiccia conficcato nel cuore.

Father Brown risalì di sopra pian piano e chiamò il suo amico Ispettore; e i due rimasero accanto al cadavere, in una casa in cui nessun altro era ancora in movimento. «Non dobbiamo né presumere né schivare l’ovvio», disse Greenwood dopo un silenzio, «ma è bene ricordare, credo, ciò che vi dicevo ieri pomeriggio. È piuttosto strano, per inciso, che io l’abbia detto… ieri pomeriggio.»

«Lo so», disse il prete, annuendo con uno sguardo da gufo.

«Dicevo», osservò Greenwood, «che l’unica specie di omicidio che non possiamo impedire è l’omicidio da parte di qualcuno come un fanatico religioso. Quel tizio bruno probabilmente crede che, se lo impiccano, andrà dritto in Paradiso per aver difeso l’onore del Profeta.»

‘There is that, of course,’ said Father Brown. ‘It would be very reasonable, so to speak, of our Moslem friend to have stabbed him. And you may say we don’t know of anybody else yet, who could at all reasonably have stabbed him. But… but I was thinking … ’ And his round face suddenly went blank again and all speech died on his lips.

‘What’s the matter now?’ asked the other.

‘Well, I know it sounds funny,’ said Father Brown in a forlorn voice. ‘But I was thinking … I was thinking, in a way, it doesn’t much matter who stabbed him.’

‘Is this the New Morality?’ asked his friend. ‘Or the old Casuistry, perhaps. Are the Jesuits really going in for murder?’

‘I didn’t say it didn’t matter who murdered him,’ said Father Brown. ‘Of course the man who stabbed him might possibly be the man who murdered him. But it might be quite a different man. Anyhow, it was done at quite a different time. I suppose you’ll want to work on the hilt for finger - prints; but don’t take too much notice of them. I can imagine other reasons for other people sticking this knife in the poor old boy. Not very edifying reasons, of course, but quite distinct from the murder. You’ll have to put some more knives into him, before you find out about that.’

‘You mean - ’ began the other, watching him keenly.

‘I mean the autopsy,’ said the priest, ‘to find the real cause of death.’

‘You’re quite right, I believe,’ said the Inspector, ‘about the stabbing, anyhow. We must wait for the doctor; but I’m pretty sure he’ll say you’re right. There isn’t blood enough. This knife was stuck in the corpse when it had been cold for hours. But why?’

‘Possibly to put the blame on the Mahommedan,’ answered Father Brown. ‘Pretty mean, I admit, but not necessarily murder. I fancy there are people in this place trying to keep secrets, who are not necessarily murderers.’

‘I haven’t speculated on that line yet,’ said Greenwood. ‘What makes you think so?’

‘What I said yesterday, when we first came into this horrible room. I said it would be easy to commit a murder here. But I wasn’t thinking about all those stupid weapons, though you thought I was. About something quite different.’

For the next few hours the Inspector and his friend conducted a close and thorough investigation into the goings and comings of everybody for the last twenty - four hours, the way the drinks had been distributed, the glasses that were washed or unwashed, and every detail about every individual involved, or apparently not involved. One might have supposed they thought that thirty people had been poisoned, as well as one.

It seemed certain that nobody had entered the building except by the big entrance that adjoined the bar; all the others were blocked in one way or another by the repairs. A boy had been cleaning the steps outside this entrance; but he had nothing very clear to report. Until the amazing entry of the Turk in the Turban, with his teetotal lecturer, there did not seem to have been much custom of any kind, except for the commercial travellers who came in to take what they called ‘quick ones’; and they seemed to have moved together, like Wordsworth’s Cloud; there was a slight difference of opinion between the boy outside and the men inside about whether one of them had not been abnormally quick in obtaining a quick one, and come out on the doorstep by himself; but the manager and the barman had no memory of any such independent individual. The manager and the barman knew all the travellers quite well, and there was no doubt about their movements as a whole. They had stood at the bar chaffing and drinking; they had been involved, through their lordly leader, Mr Jukes, in a not very serious altercation with Mr Pryce - Jones; and they had witnessed the sudden and very serious altercation between Mr Akbar and Mr Raggley. Then they were told they could adjourn to the Commercial Room and did so, their drinks being borne after them like a trophy.

‘There’s precious little to go on,’ said Inspector Greenwood. ‘Of course a lot of officious servants must do their duty as usual, and was out all the glasses; including old Raggley’s glass. If it weren’t for everybody else’s efficiency, we detectives might be quite efficient.’

‘I know,’ said Father Brown, and his mouth took on again the twisted smile. ‘I sometimes think criminals invented hygiene. Or perhaps hygienic reformers invented crime; they look like it, some of them. Everybody talks about foul dens and filthy slums in which crime can run riot; but it’s just the other way. They are called foul, not because crimes are committed, but because crimes are discovered. It’s in the neat, spotless, clean and tidy places that crime can run riot; no mud to make footprints; no dregs to contain poison; kind servants washing out all traces of the murder; and the murderer killing and cremating six wives and all for want of a little Christian dirt. Perhaps I express myself with too much warmth - but look here. As it happens, I do remember one glass, which has doubtless been cleaned since, but I should like to know more about it.”

‘Do you mean Raggley’s glass?’ asked Greenwood.

‘No; I mean Nobody’s glass,’ replied the priest. ‘It stood near that glass of milk and it still held an inch or two of whisky. Well, you and I had no whisky. I happen to remember that the manager, when treated by the jovial Jukes, had “a drop of gin”. I hope you don’t suggest that our Moslem was a whisky - drinker disguised in a green turban; or that the Rev. David Pryce - Jones managed to drink whisky and milk together, without noticing it.’

‘Most of the commercial travellers took whisky,’ said the Inspector. ‘They generally do.’

‘Yes; and they generally see they get it too,’ answered Father Brown. ‘In this case, they had it all carefully carted after them to their own room. But this glass was left behind.’

«C’è anche questo, naturalmente», disse Father Brown. «Sarebbe assai ragionevole, per così dire, da parte del nostro amico musulmano averlo pugnalato. E potete dire che non conosciamo ancora nessun altro che potesse, con qualche ragionevolezza, averlo pugnalato. Ma… ma stavo pensando…» E il suo volto tondo tornò d’improvviso vacuo e ogni parola gli morì sulle labbra.

«Che c’è adesso?» chiese l’altro.

«Beh, so che suona buffo», disse Father Brown con voce sconsolata. «Ma stavo pensando… stavo pensando che, in un certo senso, non importa granché chi lo abbia pugnalato.»

«È questa la Nuova Morale?» chiese il suo amico. «O forse la vecchia Casistica. I gesuiti si danno davvero all’omicidio?»

«Non ho detto che non importa chi lo abbia assassinato», disse Father Brown. «Certo l’uomo che lo ha pugnalato potrebbe benissimo essere l’uomo che lo ha assassinato. Ma potrebbe essere un uomo del tutto diverso. Comunque sia, fu fatto in un momento del tutto diverso. Immagino che vorrete lavorare sull’impugnatura in cerca di impronte digitali; ma non date loro troppo peso. Posso immaginare altre ragioni per cui altre persone abbiano conficcato questo coltello nel povero vecchio. Non ragioni molto edificanti, naturalmente, ma ben distinte dall’omicidio. Dovrete piantargli ancora qualche coltello, prima di venirne a capo.»

«Volete dire…» cominciò l’altro, scrutandolo con attenzione.

«Voglio dire l’autopsia», disse il prete, «per trovare la vera causa della morte.»

«Avete perfettamente ragione, credo», disse l’Ispettore, «riguardo alla pugnalata, in ogni caso. Dobbiamo aspettare il medico; ma sono quasi certo che dirà che avete ragione. Non c’è abbastanza sangue. Questo coltello fu conficcato nel cadavere quand’era ormai freddo da ore. Ma perché?»

«Forse per dare la colpa al maomettano», rispose Father Brown. «Piuttosto meschino, lo ammetto, ma non necessariamente omicidio. Ho l’impressione che in questo posto ci sia gente che cerca di serbare segreti, senza per questo essere per forza assassini.»

«Non ho ancora fatto congetture su questa linea», disse Greenwood. «Cosa ve lo fa pensare?»

«Ciò che ho detto ieri, quando siamo entrati per la prima volta in questa orribile stanza. Ho detto che sarebbe stato facile commettere un omicidio qui. Ma non pensavo a tutte quelle stupide armi, benché voi credeste di sì. A tutt’altra cosa.»

Per le ore successive l’Ispettore e il suo amico condussero un’indagine minuziosa e accurata sugli andirivieni di tutti quanti nelle ultime ventiquattro ore, sul modo in cui le bevande erano state distribuite, sui bicchieri lavati o non lavati, e su ogni particolare riguardante ogni singola persona coinvolta, o apparentemente non coinvolta. Si sarebbe potuto supporre che credessero fossero state avvelenate trenta persone, e non una sola, come del resto era.

Pareva certo che nessuno fosse entrato nell’edificio se non per il grande ingresso attiguo al bar; tutti gli altri erano bloccati in un modo o nell’altro dai lavori. Un ragazzo aveva pulito i gradini fuori da quest’ingresso; ma non aveva nulla di molto chiaro da riferire. Fino allo strabiliante ingresso del turco col turbante, con il suo conferenziere astemio, non pareva esserci stato molto avventore d’alcun genere, tranne i commessi viaggiatori entrati a prendere quelli che chiamavano «quick ones», i loro sorsetti veloci; e parevano essersi mossi tutti insieme, come la Nuvola di Wordsworth; c’era una lieve divergenza d’opinione tra il ragazzo di fuori e gli uomini di dentro sul fatto che uno di loro non fosse stato anormalmente svelto a procurarsi il suo sorso, ed uscito da solo sulla soglia; ma il direttore e il barista non serbavano alcun ricordo di un simile individuo indipendente. Il direttore e il barista conoscevano benissimo tutti i viaggiatori, e non c’era alcun dubbio sui loro movimenti nel complesso. Erano stati in piedi al bar a scherzare e a bere; erano stati coinvolti, tramite il loro altero capo, il signor Jukes, in un alterco non troppo serio col signor Pryce-Jones; e avevano assistito all’improvviso e assai serio alterco tra il signor Akbar e il signor Raggley. Poi era stato loro detto che potevano trasferirsi nella Sala Commerciale, e così avevano fatto, le loro bevande portate dietro a loro come un trofeo.

«C’è ben poco su cui basarsi», disse l’Ispettore Greenwood. «Naturalmente un mucchio di solerti domestici deve fare il proprio dovere come al solito, e ha lavato tutti i bicchieri; compreso quello del vecchio Raggley. Se non fosse per l’efficienza di tutti gli altri, noi investigatori potremmo essere alquanto efficienti.»

«Lo so», disse Father Brown, e la sua bocca riprese il sorriso storto. «Talvolta penso che siano stati i criminali a inventare l’igiene. O forse i riformatori igienisti hanno inventato il crimine; ne hanno l’aria, certuni. Tutti parlano di sozzi covi e luridi bassifondi in cui il crimine può scatenarsi; ma è proprio il contrario. Sono detti sozzi non perché vi si commettano delitti, ma perché vi si scoprono delitti. È nei luoghi lindi, immacolati, puliti e ordinati che il crimine può scatenarsi; niente fango a lasciare impronte; niente fondi di bicchiere a contenere il veleno; gentili domestici che lavano via ogni traccia dell’omicidio; e l’assassino che uccide e crema sei mogli, e tutto per mancanza di un po’ di cristiana sporcizia. Forse mi esprimo con troppo calore, ma guardate qui. Si dà il caso che io ricordi un bicchiere, che senza dubbio è stato lavato da allora, ma sul quale vorrei saperne di più.»

«Intendete il bicchiere di Raggley?» chiese Greenwood.

«No; intendo il bicchiere di Nessuno», rispose il prete. «Stava vicino a quel bicchiere di latte e conteneva ancora un dito o due di whisky. Ebbene, voi e io non abbiamo bevuto whisky. Mi capita di ricordare che il direttore, quando fu offerto da bere dal gioviale Jukes, prese «un goccio di gin». Spero che non vogliate suggerire che il nostro musulmano fosse un bevitore di whisky travestito da turbante verde; o che il reverendo David Pryce-Jones sia riuscito a bere whisky e latte insieme, senza accorgersene.»

«La maggior parte dei commessi viaggiatori ha preso whisky», disse l’Ispettore. «Di solito fanno così.»

«Sì; e di solito badano bene di averlo», rispose Father Brown. «In questo caso, se lo fecero portare tutto con cura nella loro stanza. Ma questo bicchiere fu lasciato indietro.»

‘An accident, I suppose,’ said Greenwood doubtfully. ‘The man could easily get another in the Commercial Room afterwards.’

Father Brown shook his head. ‘You’ve got to see people as they are. Now these sort of men - well, some call them vulgar and some common; but that’s all likes and dislikes. I’d be content to say that they are mostly simple men. Lots of them very good men, very glad to go back to the missus and the kids; some of them might be blackguards; might have had several missuses; or even murdered several missuses. But most of them are simple men; and, mark you, just the least tiny bit drunk. Not much; there’s many a duke or don at Oxford drunker; but when that sort of man is at that stage of conviviality, he simply can’t help noticing things, and noticing them very loud. Don’t you observe that the least little incident jerks them into speech; if the beer froths over, they froth over with it, and have to say, “Whoa, Emma,” or “Doing me proud, aren’t you?” Now I should say it’s flatly impossible for five of these festive beings to sit round a table in the Commercial Room, and have only four glasses set before them, the fifth man being left out, without making a shout about it. Probably they would make a shout about it. Certainly he would make a shout about it. He wouldn’t wait, like an Englishman of another class, till he could get a drink quietly later. The air would resound with things like, “And what about little me?” or, “Here, George, have I joined the Band of Hope?” or, “Do you see any green in my turban, George?” But the barman heard no such complaints. I take it as certain that the glass of whisky left behind had been nearly emptied by somebody else; somebody we haven’t thought about yet.’

‘But can you think of any such person?’ ask the other.

‘It’s because the manager and the barman won’t hear of any such person, that you dismiss the one really independent piece of evidence; the evidence of that boy outside cleaning the steps. He says that a man, who well may have been a bagman, but who did not, in fact, stick to the other bagmen, went in and came out again almost immediately. The manager and the barman never saw him; or say they never saw him. But he got a glass of whisky from the bar somehow. Let us call him, for the sake of argument, The Quick One. Now you know I don’t often interfere with your business, which I know you do better than I should do it, or should want to do it. I’ve never had anything to do with setting police machinery at work, or running down criminals, or anything like that. But, for the first time in my life, I want to do it now. I want you to find The Quick One; to follow The Quick One to the ends of the earth; to set the whole infernal official machinery at work like a drag - net across the nations, and jolly well recapture The Quick One. Because he is the man we want.’

Greenwood made a despairing gesture. ‘Has he face or form or any visible quality except quickness?’ he inquired.

‘He was wearing a sort of Inverness cape,’ said Father Brown, ‘and he told the boy outside he must reach Edinburgh by next morning. That’s all the boy outside remembers. But I know your organization has got on to people with less clue than that.’

‘You seem very keen on this,’ said the Inspector, a little puzzled.

The priest looked puzzled also, as if at his own thoughts; he sat with knotted brow and then said abruptly: ‘You see, it’s so easy to be misunderstood. All men matter. You matter. I matter. It’s the hardest thing in theology to believe.’

The Inspector stared at him without comprehension; but he proceeded.

‘We matter to God - God only knows why. But that’s the only possible justification of the existence of policemen.’ The policeman did not seem enlightened as to his own cosmic justification. ‘Don’t you see, the law really is right in a way, after all. If all men matter, all murders matter. That which He has so mysteriously created, we must not suffer to be mysteriously destroyed. But - ’

He said the last word sharply, like one taking a new step in decision.

‘But, when once I step off that mystical level of equality, I don’t see that most of your important murders are particularly important. You are always telling me that this case and that is important. As a plain, practical man of the world, I must realize that it is the Prime Minister who has been murdered. As a plain, practical man of the world, I don’t think that the Prime Minister matters at all. As a mere matter of human importance, I should say he hardly exists at all. Do you suppose if he and the other public men were shot dead tomorrow, there wouldn’t be other people to stand up and say that every avenue was being explored, or that the Government had the matter under the gravest consideration? The masters of the modern world don’t matter. Even the real masters don’t matter much. Hardly anybody you ever read about in a newspaper matters at all.’

He stood up, giving the table a small rap: one of his rare gestures; and his voice changed again. ‘But Raggley did matter. He was one of a great line of some half a dozen men who might have saved England. They stand up stark and dark like disregarded sign - posts, down all that smooth descending road which has ended in this swamp of merely commercial collapse. Dean Swift and Dr Johnson and old William Cobbett; they had all without exception the name of being surly or savage, and they were all loved by their friends, and they all deserved to be. Didn’t you see how that old man, with the heart of a lion, stood up and forgave his enemy as only fighters can forgive? He jolly well did do what that temperance lecturer talked about; he set an example to us Christians and was a model of Christianity. And when there is foul and secret murder of a man like that - then I do think it matters, matters so much that even the modern machinery of police will be a thing that any respectable person may make use of … Oh, don’t mention it. And so, for once in a way, I really do want to make use of you.’

«Una svista, immagino», disse Greenwood, dubbioso. «L’uomo poteva facilmente procurarsene un altro nella Sala Commerciale, dopo.»

Father Brown scosse il capo. «Bisogna vedere la gente com’è. Ora, questa sorta di uomini… beh, c’è chi li dice volgari e chi comuni; ma sono tutte simpatie e antipatie. Mi accontenterei di dire che sono per lo più uomini semplici. Molti di loro ottimi uomini, ben lieti di tornare dalla mogliettina e dai ragazzini; alcuni magari mascalzoni; magari con parecchie mogliettine; o che hanno perfino assassinato parecchie mogliettine. Ma la maggior parte sono uomini semplici; e, badate bene, appena appena un tantino brilli. Non troppo; c’è più d’un duca o d’un professore a Oxford più brillo di loro; ma quando un uomo di quella specie è a quel punto della convivialità, non può proprio fare a meno di notare le cose, e di notarle a gran voce. Non osservate che il minimo incidente li fa scattare a parlare; se la birra trabocca in schiuma, traboccano anch’essi con essa, e devono dire «Ehilà, Emma!», o «Mi fai proprio onore, eh?». Ora, direi che è del tutto impossibile che cinque di questi allegri compari siedano attorno a un tavolo nella Sala Commerciale, e si vedano posare davanti solo quattro bicchieri, restando escluso il quinto uomo, senza levare uno strepito. Probabilmente lo leverebbero tutti quanti, lo strepito. Di certo lo leverebbe lui. Non aspetterebbe, come un inglese di un’altra classe, di potersi procurare un bicchiere in santa pace più tardi. L’aria risuonerebbe di cose come «E il piccolo me, allora?», oppure «Ehi, George, mi sono forse iscritto alla Band of Hope?», oppure «Vedi mica del verde nel mio turbante, George?». Ma il barista non udì lagnanze del genere. Do per certo che il bicchiere di whisky lasciato indietro fosse stato quasi vuotato da qualcun altro; qualcuno a cui non abbiamo ancora pensato.»

«Ma vi viene in mente qualcuno di simile?» chiese l’altro.

«È perché il direttore e il barista non vogliono saperne di una persona simile, che voi scartate l’unica prova davvero indipendente; la testimonianza di quel ragazzo là fuori che puliva i gradini. Dice che un uomo, che magari poteva essere un commesso viaggiatore, ma che in realtà non si tenne con gli altri commessi, entrò e uscì di nuovo quasi subito. Il direttore e il barista non lo videro mai; o dicono di non averlo mai visto. Ma in qualche modo si procurò un bicchiere di whisky dal bar. Chiamiamolo, per amor di argomentazione, Lo Svelto. Ora, sapete che non mi intrometto spesso nei vostri affari, che so voi sbrigate meglio di quanto farei io, o di quanto vorrei farli. Non ho mai avuto niente a che fare col mettere in moto la macchina della polizia, o col dar la caccia ai criminali, o alcunché di simile. Ma, per la prima volta in vita mia, voglio farlo adesso. Voglio che troviate Lo Svelto; che inseguiate Lo Svelto fino ai confini della terra; che mettiate in moto tutta l’infernale macchina ufficiale come una rete a strascico gettata attraverso le nazioni, e che riacciuffiate ben bene Lo Svelto. Perché è l’uomo che ci serve.»

Greenwood fece un gesto di disperazione. «Ha un volto o una forma o una qualche qualità visibile, oltre alla sveltezza?» domandò.

«Portava una specie di mantello all’Inverness», disse Father Brown, «e disse al ragazzo là fuori che doveva raggiungere Edimburgo entro l’indomani mattina. È tutto ciò che il ragazzo là fuori ricorda. Ma so che la vostra organizzazione ha rintracciato gente con indizi ancora più scarsi.»

«Vi ci accanite parecchio», disse l’Ispettore, un po’ perplesso.

Anche il prete parve perplesso, come dei propri stessi pensieri; sedette con la fronte aggrottata e poi disse bruscamente: «Vedete, è così facile essere fraintesi. Tutti gli uomini contano. Voi contate. Io conto. È la cosa più difficile da credere in tutta la teologia.»

L’Ispettore lo fissò senza comprendere; ma egli proseguì.

«Contiamo per Dio… Dio solo sa perché. Ma è l’unica possibile giustificazione dell’esistenza dei poliziotti.» Il poliziotto non parve illuminato quanto alla propria cosmica giustificazione. «Non vedete, la legge in fondo ha davvero ragione, in un certo modo. Se tutti gli uomini contano, tutti gli omicidi contano. Ciò che Egli ha così misteriosamente creato, non dobbiamo lasciare che sia misteriosamente distrutto. Ma…»

Pronunciò l’ultima parola in tono reciso, come chi compie un nuovo passo in una decisione.

«Ma, una volta che scendo da quel mistico piano d’uguaglianza, non vedo che la maggior parte dei vostri importanti omicidi siano particolarmente importanti. Voi mi dite sempre che questo e quel caso sono importanti. Come uomo semplice, pratico, di mondo, devo rendermi conto che è il Primo Ministro a essere stato assassinato. Come uomo semplice, pratico, di mondo, non penso affatto che il Primo Ministro conti. Come mera questione di importanza umana, direi che quasi non esiste. Credete forse che, se lui e gli altri uomini pubblici venissero uccisi domani, non ci sarebbe altra gente pronta ad alzarsi in piedi e a dire che ogni via veniva vagliata, o che il Governo aveva la questione allo studio più attento? I signori del mondo moderno non contano. Persino i veri signori non contano granché. Quasi nessuno di cui leggiate mai sul giornale conta un bel niente.»

Si alzò in piedi, dando un lieve colpetto al tavolo: uno dei suoi rari gesti; e la sua voce mutò di nuovo. «Ma Raggley contava. Era uno di una grande schiera di circa una mezza dozzina di uomini che avrebbero potuto salvare l’Inghilterra. Se ne stanno ritti e scuri come cartelli indicatori ignorati, lungo tutta quella liscia strada in discesa che è sfociata in questa palude di puro collasso mercantile. Il decano Swift e il dottor Johnson e il vecchio William Cobbett; tutti quanti, senza eccezione, avevano fama di essere burberi o selvatici, ed erano tutti amati dai loro amici, e lo meritavano tutti. Non avete visto come quel vecchio, col cuore di un leone, si è alzato in piedi e ha perdonato il suo nemico come solo i combattenti sanno perdonare? Ha fatto proprio ben bene ciò di cui parlava quel conferenziere della temperanza; ha dato l’esempio a noi cristiani ed è stato un modello di Cristianità. E quando c’è l’omicidio turpe e segreto di un uomo così… allora sì, penso che conti, che conti a tal punto che persino la moderna macchina della polizia diventa una cosa di cui ogni persona rispettabile può servirsi… Oh, non c’è di che. E così, per una volta tanto, voglio davvero servirmi di voi.»

And so, for some stretch of those strange days and nights, we might almost say that the little figure of Father Brown drove before him into action all the armies and engines of the police forces of the Crown, as the little figure of Napoleon drove the batteries and the battle - lines of the vast strategy that covered Europe. Police stations and post offices worked all night; traffic was stopped, correspondence was intercepted, inquiries were made in a hundred places, in order to track the flying trail of that ghostly figure, without face or name, with an Inverness cape and an Edinburgh ticket.

Meanwhile, of course, the other lines of investigation were not neglected. The full report of the post - mortem had not yet come in; but everybody seemed certain that it was a case of poisoning. This naturally threw the primary suspicion upon the cherry brandy; and this again naturally threw the primary suspicion on the hotel.

‘Most probably on the manager of the hotel,’ said Greenwood gruffly. ‘He looks a nasty little worm to me. Of course it might be something to do with some servant, like the barman; he seems rather a sulky specimen, and Raggley might have cursed him a bit, having a flaming temper, though he was generally generous enough afterwards. But, after all, as I say, the primary responsibility, and therefore the primary suspicion, rests on the manager.’

‘Oh, I knew the primary suspicion would rest on the manager,’ said Father Brown. ‘That was why I didn’t suspect him. You see, I rather fancied somebody else must have known that the primary suspicion would rest on the manager; or the servants of the hotel. That is why I said it would be easy to kill anybody in the hotel … But you’d better go and have it out with him, I suppose.’

The Inspector went; but came back again after a surprisingly short interview, and found his clerical friend turning over some papers that seemed to be a sort of dossier of the stormy career of John Raggley.

‘This is a rum go,’ said the Inspector. ‘I thought I should spend hours cross - examining that slippery little toad there, for we haven’t legally got a thing against him. And instead of that, he went to pieces all at once, and I really think he’s told me all he knows in sheer funk.’

‘I know,’ said Father Brown. ‘That’s the way he went to pieces when he found Raggley’s corpse apparently poisoned in his hotel. That’s why he lost his head enough to do such a clumsy thing as decorate the corpse with a Turkish knife, to put the blame on the nigger, as he would say. There never is anything the matter with him but funk; he’s the very last man that ever would really stick a knife into a live person. I bet he had to nerve himself to stick it into a dead one. But he’s the very first person to be frightened of being charged with what he didn’t do; and to make a fool of himself, as he did.’

‘I suppose I must see the barman too,’ observed Greenwood.

‘I suppose so,’ answered the other. ‘I don’t believe myself it was any of the hotel people - well, because it was made to look as if it must be the hotel people … But look here, have you seen any of this stuff they’ve got together about Raggley? He had a jolly interesting life; I wonder whether anyone will write his biography.’

‘I took a note of everything likely to affect an affair like this,’ answered the official. ‘He was a widower; but he did once have a row with a man about his wife; a Scotch land - agent then in these parts; and Raggley seems to have been pretty violent. They say he hated Scotchmen; perhaps that’s the reason … Oh, I know what you are smiling grimly about. A Scotchman … Perhaps an Edinburgh man.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Father Brown. ‘It’s quite likely, though, that he did dislike Scotchmen, apart from private reasons. It’s an odd thing, but all that tribe of Tory Radicals, or whatever you call them, who resisted the Whig mercantile movement, all of them did dislike Scotchmen. Cobbett did; Dr Johnson did; Swift described their accent in one of his deadliest passages; even Shakespeare has been accused of the prejudice. But the prejudices of great men generally have something to do with principles. And there was a reason, I fancy. The Scot came from a poor agricultural land, that became a rich industrial land. He was able and active; he thought he was bringing industrial civilization from the north; he simply didn’t know that there had been for centuries a rural civilization in the south. His own grandfather’s land was highly rural but not civilized … Well, well, I suppose we can only wait for more news.’

‘I hardly think you’ll get the latest news out of Shakespeare and Dr Johnson,’ grinned the police officer. ‘What Shakespeare thought of Scotchmen isn’t exactly evidence.’

Father Brown cocked an eyebrow, as if a new thought had surprised him. ‘Why, now I come to think of it,’ he said, ‘there might be better evidence, even out of Shakespeare. He doesn’t often mention Scotchmen. But he was rather fond of making fun of Welshmen.’

The Inspector was searching his friend’s face; for he fancied he recognized an alertness behind its demure expression. ‘By Jove,’ he said. ‘Nobody thought of turning the suspicions that way, anyhow.’

‘Well,’ said Father Brown, with broad - minded calm, ‘you started by talking about fanatics; and how a fanatic could do anything. Well, I suppose we had the honour of entertaining in this bar - parlour yesterday, about the biggest and loudest and most fat - headed fanatic in the modern world. If being a pig - headed idiot with one idea is the way to murder, I put in a claim for my reverend brother Pryce - Jones, the Prohibitionist, in preference to all the fakirs in Asia, and it’s perfectly true, as I told you, that his horrible glass of milk was standing side by side on the counter with the mysterious glass of whisky.’

‘Which you think was mixed up with the murder,’ said Greenwood, staring. ‘Look here, I don’t know whether you’re really serious or not.’

E così, per un certo tratto di quei giorni e di quelle notti singolari, potremmo quasi dire che la piccola figura di Father Brown spinse innanzi a sé all’azione tutti gli eserciti e i congegni delle forze di polizia della Corona, come la piccola figura di Napoleone spingeva le batterie e le linee di battaglia della vasta strategia che copriva l’Europa. Stazioni di polizia e uffici postali lavorarono tutta la notte; il traffico fu bloccato, la corrispondenza intercettata, indagini vennero fatte in cento luoghi, per seguire la traccia fuggitiva di quella figura spettrale, senza volto né nome, con un mantello all’Inverness e un biglietto per Edimburgo.

Nel frattempo, naturalmente, le altre linee d’indagine non furono trascurate. Il rapporto completo dell’autopsia non era ancora giunto; ma tutti parevano certi che si trattasse di un caso di avvelenamento. Ciò gettava naturalmente il primo sospetto sul cherry brandy; e questo, di nuovo, gettava naturalmente il primo sospetto sull’albergo.

«Molto probabilmente sul direttore dell’albergo», disse Greenwood in tono brusco. «Mi ha l’aria di un lombrico ripugnante. Certo potrebbe avere a che fare con qualche domestico, come il barista; ha l’aria di un esemplare piuttosto imbronciato, e Raggley può averlo maledetto un po’, avendo un carattere infuocato, benché di solito fosse poi generoso abbastanza. Ma, dopo tutto, come dico, la responsabilità primaria, e quindi il sospetto primario, ricade sul direttore.»

«Oh, lo sapevo che il sospetto primario sarebbe ricaduto sul direttore», disse Father Brown. «Ecco perché non lo sospettavo. Vedete, mi figuravo piuttosto che qualcun altro dovesse sapere che il sospetto primario sarebbe ricaduto sul direttore; o sui domestici dell’albergo. Ecco perché ho detto che sarebbe stato facile uccidere chiunque nell’albergo… Ma è meglio che andiate a chiarire la faccenda con lui, immagino.»

L’Ispettore andò; ma tornò dopo un colloquio sorprendentemente breve, e trovò il suo amico ecclesiastico intento a sfogliare alcune carte che parevano una sorta di dossier sulla tempestosa carriera di John Raggley.

«È una faccenda ben strana», disse l’Ispettore. «Credevo che avrei passato ore a controinterrogare quel viscido rospetto, ché legalmente non abbiamo niente contro di lui. E invece è andato in pezzi tutto d’un tratto, e credo davvero che mi abbia detto tutto quel che sa per pura strizza.»

«Lo so», disse Father Brown. «È così che è andato in pezzi quando ha trovato il cadavere di Raggley apparentemente avvelenato nel suo albergo. Ecco perché ha perso la testa al punto da fare una cosa tanto goffa come addobbare il cadavere con un coltello turco, per dar la colpa al negro, come direbbe lui. Non ha mai niente che non vada, tranne la strizza; è l’ultimissimo uomo che ficcherebbe mai davvero un coltello in una persona viva. Scommetto che ha dovuto farsi coraggio per ficcarlo in una morta. Ma è la primissima persona a spaventarsi di essere accusata di ciò che non ha fatto; e a rendersi ridicola, come ha fatto.»

«Immagino che dovrò vedere anche il barista», osservò Greenwood.

«Immagino di sì», rispose l’altro. «Personalmente non credo che sia stato qualcuno della gente dell’albergo… proprio perché è stato fatto in modo da sembrare che dovesse essere la gente dell’albergo… Ma guardate qui, avete visto qualcosa di tutto questo materiale che hanno messo insieme su Raggley? Ha avuto una vita davvero interessante; mi domando se qualcuno scriverà la sua biografia.»

«Ho preso nota di tutto ciò che potesse riguardare un affare del genere», rispose il funzionario. «Era vedovo; ma una volta ebbe davvero una lite con un uomo a proposito della moglie; un agente immobiliare scozzese allora da queste parti; e Raggley pare sia stato piuttosto violento. Dicono che odiasse gli scozzesi; forse è per questo… Oh, so di cosa sorridete sinistramente. Uno scozzese… Forse un uomo di Edimburgo.»

«Forse», disse Father Brown. «È del tutto probabile, però, che gli scozzesi gli fossero antipatici, a prescindere da ragioni private. È una cosa strana, ma tutta quella genìa di radicali conservatori, o comunque li vogliate chiamare, che resistettero al movimento mercantile whig, tutti quanti trovavano antipatici gli scozzesi. Cobbett sì; il dottor Johnson sì; Swift ne descrisse l’accento in uno dei suoi passi più micidiali; persino Shakespeare è stato accusato di questo pregiudizio. Ma i pregiudizi dei grandi uomini hanno di solito qualcosa a che fare coi princìpi. E c’era una ragione, credo. Lo scozzese veniva da una povera terra agricola, che divenne una ricca terra industriale. Era abile e attivo; credeva di portare la civiltà industriale dal nord; semplicemente non sapeva che al sud c’era stata per secoli una civiltà rurale. La terra di suo nonno era assai rurale ma non civile… Beh, beh, immagino che non possiamo far altro che attendere altre notizie.»

«Non credo proprio che caverete le ultime notizie da Shakespeare e dal dottor Johnson», ghignò l’ufficiale di polizia. «Ciò che Shakespeare pensava degli scozzesi non è esattamente una prova.»

Father Brown inarcò un sopracciglio, come se un nuovo pensiero lo avesse sorpreso. «Ebbene, ora che ci penso», disse, «potrebbe esserci una prova migliore, persino da Shakespeare. Non menziona spesso gli scozzesi. Ma era piuttosto incline a burlarsi dei gallesi.»

L’Ispettore scrutava il volto dell’amico; ché gli parve di riconoscervi una prontezza dietro l’espressione contegnosa. «Perbacco», disse. «A nessuno era venuto in mente di volgere i sospetti in quella direzione, in ogni caso.»

«Ebbene», disse Father Brown, con serena larghezza di vedute, «avete cominciato voi a parlare di fanatici; e di come un fanatico possa fare qualsiasi cosa. Ebbene, immagino che abbiamo avuto l’onore di ospitare in questa sala del bar, ieri, il più grande e chiassoso e testardo fanatico del mondo moderno. Se essere un idiota cocciuto con un’idea sola è la strada per l’omicidio, avanzo pretesa per il mio reverendo fratello Pryce-Jones, il proibizionista, di preferenza a tutti i fachiri d’Asia, ed è perfettamente vero, come vi ho detto, che il suo orribile bicchiere di latte stava fianco a fianco sul bancone col misterioso bicchiere di whisky.»

«Che voi pensate fosse implicato nell’omicidio», disse Greenwood, fissandolo. «Sentite, non so se davvero facciate sul serio oppure no.»

Even as he was looking steadily in his friend’s face, finding something still inscrutable in its expression, the telephone rang stridently behind the bar. Lifting the flap in the counter Inspector Greenwood passed rapidly inside, unhooked the receiver, listened for an instant, and then uttered a shout; not addressed to his interlocutor, but to the universe in general. Then he listened still more attentively and said explosively at intervals, ‘Yes, yes … Come round at once; bring him round if possible … Good piece of work … Congratulate you.’

Then Inspector Greenwood came back into the outer lounge, like a man who has renewed his youth, sat down squarely on his seat, with his hands planted on his knees, stared at his friend, and said:

‘Father Brown, I don’t know how you do it. You seem to have known he was a murderer before anybody else knew he was a man. He was nobody; he was nothing; he was a slight confusion in the evidence; nobody in the hotel saw him; the boy on the steps could hardly swear to him; he was just a fine shade of doubt founded on an extra dirty glass. But we’ve got him, and he’s the man we want.’

Father Brown had risen with the sense of the crisis, mechanically clutching the papers destined to be so valuable to the biographer of Mr Raggley; and stood staring at his friend. Perhaps this gesture jerked his friend’s mind to fresh confirmations.

‘Yes, we’ve got The Quick One. And very quick he was, like quicksilver, in making his get - away; we only just stopped him - off on a fishing trip to Orkney, he said. But he’s the man, all right; he’s the Scotch land - agent who made love to Raggley’s wife; he’s the man who drank Scotch whisky in this bar and then took a train to Edinburgh. And nobody would have known it but for you.’

‘Well, what I meant,’ began Father Brown, in a rather dazed tone; and at that instant there was a rattle and rumble of heavy vehicles outside the hotel; and two or three other and subordinate policemen blocked the bar with their presence. One of them, invited by his superior to sit down, did so in an expansive manner, like one at once happy and fatigued; and he also regarded Father Brown with admiring eyes.

‘Got the murderer. Sir, oh yes,’ he said: ‘I know he’s a murderer, ‘cause he bally nearly murdered me. I’ve captured some tough characters before now; but never one like this - hit me in the stomach like the kick of a horse and nearly got away from five men. Oh, you’ve got a real killer this time. Inspector.’

‘Where is he?’ asked Father Brown, staring.

‘Outside in the van, in handcuffs,’ replied the policeman, ‘and, if you’re wise, you’ll leave him there - for the present.’

Father Brown sank into a chair in a sort of soft collapse; and the papers he had been nervously clutching were shed around him, shooting and sliding about the floor like sheets of breaking snow. Not only his face, but his whole body, conveyed the impression of a punctured balloon.

‘Oh … Oh,’ he repeated, as if any further oath would be inadequate. ‘Oh …I’ve done it again.’

‘If you mean you’ve caught the criminal again,’ began Greenwood. But his friend stopped him with a feeble explosion, like that of expiring soda - water.

‘I mean,’ said Father Brown, ‘that it’s always happening; and really, I don’t know why. I always try to say what I mean. But everybody else means such a lot by what I say.’

‘What in the world is the matter now?’ cried Greenwood, suddenly exasperated.

‘Well, I say things,’ said Father Brown in a weak voice, which could alone convey the weakness of the words. ‘I say things, but everybody seems to know they mean more than they say. Once I saw a broken mirror and said “Something has happened” and they all answered, “Yes, yes, as you truly say, two men wrestled and one ran into the garden,” and so on. I don’t understand it, “Something happened,” and “Two men wrestled,” don’t seem to me at all the same; but I dare say I read old books of logic. Well, it’s like that here. You seem to be all certain this man is a murderer. But I never said he was a murderer. I said he was the man we wanted. He is. I want him very much. I want him frightfully. I want him as the one thing we haven’t got in the whole of this horrible case - a witness!’

They all stared at him, but in a frowning fashion, like men trying to follow a sharp new turn of the argument; and it was he who resumed the argument.

‘From the first minute I entered that big empty bar or saloon, I knew what was the matter with all this business was emptiness; solitude; too many chances for anybody to be alone. In a word, the absence of witnesses. All we knew was that when we came in, the manager and the barman were not in the bar. But when were they in the bar? What chance was there of making any sort of time - table of when anybody was anywhere? The whole thing was blank for want of witnesses. I rather fancy the barman or somebody was in the bar just before we came; and that’s how the Scotchman got his Scotch whisky. He certainly didn’t get it after we came. But we can’t begin to inquire whether anybody in the hotel poisoned poor Raggley’s cherry brandy, till we really know who was in the bar and when. Now I want you to do me another favour, in spite of this stupid muddle, which is probably all my fault. I want you to collect all the people involved in this room - I think they’re all still available, unless the Asiatic has gone back to Asia - and then take the poor Scotchman out of his handcuffs, and bring him in here, and let him tell us who did serve him with whisky, and who was in the bar, and who else was in the room, and all the rest. He’s the only man whose evidence can cover just that period when the crime was done. I don’t see the slightest reason for doubting his word.’

‘But look here,’ said Greenwood. ‘This brings it all back to the hotel authorities; and I thought you agreed that the manager isn’t the murderer. Is it the barman, or what?’

Proprio mentre guardava fisso il volto dell’amico, trovando qualcosa di ancora imperscrutabile nella sua espressione, il telefono squillò stridulo dietro il bar. Sollevando il ribalta del bancone, l’Ispettore Greenwood passò rapidamente dentro, staccò il ricevitore, ascoltò per un istante, e poi emise un grido; non rivolto al suo interlocutore, ma all’universo in generale. Poi ascoltò ancora più attentamente e disse a scatti, in modo esplosivo: «Sì, sì… Venite subito; portatelo qui se possibile… Bel lavoro… Congratulazioni.»

Poi l’Ispettore Greenwood tornò nel salotto esterno, come uomo che abbia rinnovato la propria giovinezza, si sedette dritto al suo posto, con le mani piantate sulle ginocchia, fissò l’amico, e disse:

«Father Brown, non so come facciate. Pare che sapeste che era un assassino prima ancora che chiunque altro sapesse che era un uomo. Non era nessuno; non era niente; era una lieve confusione nelle testimonianze; nessuno nell’albergo lo vide; il ragazzo sui gradini a stento poté giurarci; era soltanto una sottile sfumatura di dubbio fondata su un bicchiere più sudicio del solito. Ma lo abbiamo preso, ed è l’uomo che ci serve.»

Father Brown si era alzato con la coscienza della crisi, stringendo macchinalmente le carte destinate a tornare tanto preziose al biografo del signor Raggley; e restava a fissare l’amico. Forse questo gesto scosse la mente dell’amico verso nuove conferme.

«Sì, abbiamo preso Lo Svelto. E svelto lo fu davvero, come argento vivo, nel darsi alla fuga; lo abbiamo fermato giusto in tempo… partito per una battuta di pesca alle Orcadi, ha detto. Ma è l’uomo giusto, sì; è l’agente immobiliare scozzese che fece la corte alla moglie di Raggley; è l’uomo che bevve whisky scozzese in questo bar e poi prese un treno per Edimburgo. E nessuno lo avrebbe mai saputo se non fosse stato per voi.»

«Ebbene, quel che intendevo», cominciò Father Brown, in tono piuttosto stordito; e in quell’istante ci fu un rumore secco e un rombo di pesanti veicoli fuori dall’albergo; e due o tre altri poliziotti subalterni ingombrarono il bar con la loro presenza. Uno di loro, invitato dal superiore a sedersi, lo fece in maniera espansiva, come chi sia insieme felice e stanco; e anch’egli guardò Father Brown con occhi ammirati.

«Preso l’assassino, signore, oh sì», disse: «So che è un assassino, ché per poco non ha assassinato me. Ho catturato certi tipi tosti prima d’ora; ma mai uno così… mi ha colpito nello stomaco come il calcio di un cavallo e per poco non è sfuggito a cinque uomini. Oh, avete acchiappato un vero killer questa volta, Ispettore.»

«Dov’è?» chiese Father Brown, fissandolo.

«Fuori nel furgone, in manette», rispose il poliziotto, «e, se siete saggio, lo lascerete lì… per il momento.»

Father Brown sprofondò in una poltrona in una sorta di molle collasso; e le carte che aveva nervosamente stretto si sparsero attorno a lui, saettando e scivolando per il pavimento come falde di neve che si sfaldano. Non solo il suo volto, ma tutto il suo corpo dava l’impressione di un pallone bucato.

«Oh… Oh», ripeté, come se qualunque altra imprecazione fosse inadeguata. «Oh… L’ho fatto di nuovo.»

«Se intendete che avete preso di nuovo il criminale», cominciò Greenwood. Ma l’amico lo interruppe con una fioca esplosione, come quella dell’acqua gassata che si esaurisce.

«Intendo», disse Father Brown, «che capita di continuo; e davvero non so perché. Cerco sempre di dire ciò che intendo. Ma tutti gli altri intendono tante cose in ciò che dico.»

«Ma che diamine c’è adesso?» gridò Greenwood, esasperato d’improvviso.

«Beh, io dico delle cose», disse Father Brown con voce debole, che poteva sola rendere la debolezza delle parole. «Io dico delle cose, ma tutti paiono sapere che significano più di quel che dicono. Una volta vidi uno specchio rotto e dissi «È successo qualcosa», e tutti risposero «Sì, sì, come dite giustamente, due uomini hanno lottato e uno è corso nel giardino», e così via. Non lo capisco: «È successo qualcosa» e «Due uomini hanno lottato» non mi sembrano affatto la stessa cosa; ma oso dire che leggo vecchi libri di logica. Ebbene, è così anche qui. Voi paiono tutti certi che quest’uomo sia un assassino. Ma io non ho mai detto che fosse un assassino. Ho detto che era l’uomo che ci serviva. E lo è. Lo voglio moltissimo. Lo voglio maledettamente. Lo voglio come l’unica cosa che non abbiamo in tutto questo orribile caso: un testimone!»

Lo fissarono tutti, ma in maniera accigliata, come uomini che cerchino di seguire una brusca nuova svolta dell’argomentazione; e fu lui a riprendere l’argomentazione.

«Fin dal primo minuto in cui entrai in quel grande bar o saloon vuoto, seppi che ciò che non andava in tutta questa faccenda era il vuoto; la solitudine; troppe occasioni per chiunque di restare solo. In una parola, l’assenza di testimoni. Tutto ciò che sapevamo era che, quando entrammo, il direttore e il barista non erano al bar. Ma quand’è che erano stati al bar? Che possibilità c’era di costruire una qualsiasi tabella oraria di chi si trovasse dove in un dato momento? L’intera faccenda era una lacuna per mancanza di testimoni. Ho piuttosto l’impressione che il barista o qualcuno fosse al bar poco prima che arrivassimo; ed è così che lo scozzese ottenne il suo whisky scozzese. Di certo non lo ottenne dopo il nostro arrivo. Ma non possiamo nemmeno cominciare a indagare se qualcuno nell’albergo abbia avvelenato il cherry brandy del povero Raggley, finché non sappiamo davvero chi fosse al bar e quando. Ora voglio che mi facciate un altro favore, malgrado questa stupida confusione, che probabilmente è tutta colpa mia. Voglio che raduniate tutte le persone coinvolte in questa stanza… credo siano ancora tutte reperibili, a meno che l’asiatico non se ne sia tornato in Asia… e poi togliate le manette al povero scozzese, e lo portiate qui, e lo lasciate dire chi lo servì col whisky, e chi era al bar, e chi altro era nella stanza, e tutto il resto. È l’unico uomo la cui testimonianza possa coprire proprio quel periodo in cui il delitto fu compiuto. Non vedo la minima ragione per dubitare della sua parola.»

«Ma sentite qui», disse Greenwood. «Questo riporta tutto quanto alle autorità dell’albergo; e credevo che aveste convenuto che il direttore non è l’assassino. È il barista, allora, o chi?»

‘I don’t know,’ said the priest blankly. ‘I don’t know for certain even about the manager. I don’t know anything about the barman. I fancy the manager might be a bit of a conspirator, even if he wasn’t a murderer. But I do know there’s one solitary witness on earth who may have seem something; and that’s why I set all your police dogs on his trail to the ends of the earth.’

The mysterious Scotchman, when he finally appeared before the company thus assembled, was certainly a formidable figure; tall, with a hulking stride and a long sardonic hatchet face, with tufts of red hair; and wearing not only an Inverness cape but a Glengarry bonnet, he might well be excused for a somewhat acrid attitude; but anybody could see he was of the sort to resist arrest, even with violence. It was not surprising that he had come to blows with a fighting fellow like Raggley. It was not even surprising that the police had been convinced, by the mere details of capture, that he was a tough and a, typical killer. But he claimed to be a perfectly respectable farmer, in Aberdeenshire, his name being James Grant; and somehow not only Father Brown, but Inspector Greenwood, a shrewd man with a great deal of experience, was pretty soon convinced that the Scot’s ferocity was the fury of innocence rather than guilt.

‘Now what we want from you, Mr Grant,’ said the Inspector gravely, dropping without further parley into tones of courtesy, ‘is simply your evidence on one very important fact. I am greatly grieved at the misunderstanding by which you have suffered, but I am sure you wish to serve the ends of justice. I believe you came into this bar just after it opened, at half - past five, and were served with a glass of whisky. We are not certain what servant of the hotel, whether the barman or the manager or some subordinate, was in the bar at the time. Will you look round the room, and tell me whether the bar - attendant who served you is present here.’

‘Aye, he’s present,’ said Mr Grant, grimly smiling, having swept the group with a shrewd glance. ‘I’d know him anywhere; and ye’ll agree he’s big enough to be seen. Do ye have all your inn - servants as grand as yon?’

The Inspector’s eye remained hard and steady, and his voice colourless and continuous; the face of Father Brown was a blank; but on many other faces there was a cloud; the barman was not particularly big and not at all grand; and the manager was decidedly small.

‘We only want the barman identified,’ said the Inspector calmly. ‘Of course we know him; but we should like you to verify it independently. You mean …?’ And he stopped suddenly.

‘Weel, there he is plain enough,’ said the Scotchman wearily; and made a gesture, and with that gesture the gigantic Jukes, the prince of commercial travellers, rose like a trumpeting elephant; and in a flash had three policemen fastened on him like hounds on a wild beast.

‘Well, all that was simple enough,’ said Father Brown to his friend afterwards. ‘As I told you, the instant I entered the empty bar - room, my first thought was that, if the barman left the bar unguarded like that, there was nothing in the world to stop you or me or anybody else lifting the flap and walking in, and putting poison in any of the bottles standing waiting for customers. Of course, a practical poisoner would probably do it as Jukes did, by substituting a poisoned bottle for the ordinary bottle; that could be done in a flash. It was easy enough for him, as he travelled in bottles, to carry a flask of cherry brandy prepared and of the same pattern. Of course, it requires one condition; but it’s a fairly common condition. It would hardly do to start poisoning the beer or whisky that scores of people drink; it would cause a massacre. But when a man is well known as drinking only one special thing, like cherry brandy, that isn’t very widely drunk, it’s just like poisoning him in his own home. Only it’s a jolly sight safer. For practically the whole suspicion instantly falls on the hotel, or somebody to do with the hotel; and there’s no earthly argument to show that it was done by anyone out of a hundred customers that might come into the bar: even if people realized that a customer could do it. It was about as absolutely anonymous and irresponsible a murder as a man could commit.’

‘And why exactly did the murderer commit it?’ asked his friend.

Father Brown rose and gravely gathered the papers which he had previously scattered in a moment of distraction.

‘May I recall your attention,’ he said smiling, ‘to the materials of the forthcoming Life and Letters of the Late John Raggley? Or, for that matter, his own spoken words? He said in this very bar that he was going to expose a scandal about the management of hotels; and the scandal was the pretty common one of a corrupt agreement between hotel proprietors and a salesman who took and gave secret commissions, so that his business had a monopoly of all the drink sold in the place. It wasn’t even an open slavery like an ordinary tied house; it was a swindle at the expense of everybody the manager was supposed to serve. It was a legal offence. So the ingenious Jukes, taking the first moment when the bar was empty, as it often was, stepped inside and made the exchange of bottles; unfortunately at that very moment a Scotchman in an Inverness cape came in harshly demanding whisky. Jukes saw his only chance was to pretend to be the barman and serve the customer. He was very much relieved that the customer was a Quick One.’

‘I think you’re rather a Quick One yourself,’ observed Greenwood; ‘if you say you smelt something at the start, in the mere air of an empty room. Did you suspect Jukes at all at the start?’

‘Well, he sounded rather rich somehow,’ answered Father Brown vaguely. ‘You know when a man has a rich voice. And I did sort of ask myself why he should have such a disgustingly rich voice, when all those honest fellows were fairly poor. But I think I knew he was a sham when I saw that big shining breast - pin.’

‘You mean because it was sham?’ asked Greenwood doubtfully.

‘Oh, no; because it was genuine,’ said Father Brown.

«Non lo so», disse il prete, con aria vacua. «Non lo so nemmeno con certezza riguardo al direttore. Non so nulla del barista. Ho l’impressione che il direttore possa essere un po’ cospiratore, anche se non era un assassino. Ma so che c’è un solitario testimone sulla terra che può aver visto qualcosa; ed è per questo che ho messo tutti i vostri segugi della polizia sulle sue tracce fino ai confini della terra.»

Il misterioso scozzese, quando finalmente comparve davanti alla compagnia così radunata, era di certo una figura formidabile; alto, con un’andatura dinoccolata e un lungo volto sardonico da accetta, con ciuffi di capelli rossi; e, portando non solo un mantello all’Inverness ma un berretto Glengarry, poteva ben essere scusato per un atteggiamento alquanto acre; ma chiunque poteva vedere che era del genere disposto a resistere all’arresto, anche con la violenza. Non c’era da sorprendersi se era venuto alle mani con un tipo battagliero come Raggley. Non c’era neppure da sorprendersi se la polizia era stata convinta, dai meri particolari della cattura, che fosse un duro e un tipico assassino. Ma egli affermava di essere un agricoltore del tutto rispettabile, dell’Aberdeenshire, di nome James Grant; e in qualche modo non solo Father Brown, ma anche l’Ispettore Greenwood, uomo scaltro e di grande esperienza, furono ben presto convinti che la ferocia dello scozzese fosse il furore dell’innocenza più che della colpa.

«Ora, ciò che vogliamo da voi, signor Grant», disse l’Ispettore gravemente, scendendo senza altri preamboli a toni di cortesia, «è semplicemente la vostra testimonianza su un fatto molto importante. Sono assai addolorato per l’equivoco di cui avete sofferto, ma sono certo che desiderate servire i fini della giustizia. Credo che siate entrato in questo bar poco dopo l’apertura, alle cinque e mezza, e che vi sia stato servito un bicchiere di whisky. Non siamo certi di quale domestico dell’albergo, se il barista o il direttore o qualche subalterno, fosse al bar in quel momento. Volete guardarvi attorno nella stanza, e dirmi se l’addetto al bar che vi servì è presente qui?»

«Sì, è presente», disse il signor Grant, sorridendo cupamente, dopo aver spazzato il gruppo con uno sguardo acuto. «Lo riconoscerei ovunque; e converrete che è abbastanza grosso da farsi vedere. Li avete tutti così imponenti, i vostri camerieri di locanda?»

L’occhio dell’Ispettore rimase duro e fermo, e la sua voce incolore e continua; il volto di Father Brown era vacuo; ma su molti altri volti si addensò una nube; il barista non era particolarmente grosso e per niente imponente; e il direttore era decisamente piccolo.

«Vogliamo solo che il barista venga identificato», disse l’Ispettore con calma. «Naturalmente lo conosciamo; ma vorremmo che voi lo verificaste indipendentemente. Volete dire…?» E si arrestò di colpo.

«Beh, eccolo là, chiaro abbastanza», disse lo scozzese con stanchezza; e fece un gesto, e con quel gesto il gigantesco Jukes, il principe dei commessi viaggiatori, si levò come un elefante barrente; e in un lampo tre poliziotti gli furono addosso come cani da caccia su una fiera selvaggia.

«Ebbene, tutto ciò era abbastanza semplice», disse Father Brown all’amico, in seguito. «Come vi ho detto, nell’istante in cui entrai nella sala del bar vuota, il mio primo pensiero fu che, se il barista lasciava il bar incustodito a quel modo, non c’era nulla al mondo che impedisse a voi o a me o a chiunque altro di sollevare la ribalta ed entrare, e mettere del veleno in una qualunque delle bottiglie che stavano lì in attesa dei clienti. Naturalmente, un avvelenatore pratico lo farebbe probabilmente come fece Jukes, sostituendo una bottiglia avvelenata alla bottiglia ordinaria; il che si poteva fare in un lampo. Era abbastanza facile per lui, dato che trattava in bottiglie, portarsi una fiaschetta di cherry brandy preparata e dello stesso modello. Naturalmente, ci vuole una condizione; ma è una condizione abbastanza comune. Non converrebbe granché mettersi ad avvelenare la birra o il whisky che decine di persone bevono; ne verrebbe un massacro. Ma quando un uomo è ben noto per bere una sola cosa particolare, come il cherry brandy, che non è bevuto da moltissimi, è proprio come avvelenarlo nella propria casa. Solo che è di gran lunga più sicuro. Perché praticamente tutto il sospetto ricade all’istante sull’albergo, o su qualcuno che ha a che fare con l’albergo; e non c’è argomento terreno che mostri che è stato fatto da uno qualsiasi dei cento clienti che potrebbero entrare nel bar: anche se la gente si rendesse conto che un cliente potrebbe farlo. Fu press’a poco un omicidio anonimo e irresponsabile quanto un uomo possa mai commetterne.»

«E perché di preciso l’assassino lo commise?» chiese l’amico.

Father Brown si levò e con gravità raccolse le carte che poc’anzi aveva sparso in un momento di distrazione.

«Posso richiamare la vostra attenzione», disse sorridendo, «al materiale della prossima Vita e Lettere del Fu John Raggley? O, se è per questo, alle sue stesse parole? Disse proprio in questo bar che stava per smascherare uno scandalo sulla gestione degli alberghi; e lo scandalo era quello abbastanza comune di un accordo corrotto tra proprietari d’albergo e un venditore che prendeva e dava provvigioni segrete, cosicché il suo commercio aveva il monopolio di tutto il bere venduto nel locale. Non era nemmeno una schiavitù palese come quella di un’ordinaria locanda vincolata a un fornitore; era una truffa a spese di tutti coloro che il direttore avrebbe dovuto servire. Era un reato legale. Così l’ingegnoso Jukes, cogliendo il primo momento in cui il bar era vuoto, come spesso era, entrò e fece lo scambio delle bottiglie; disgraziatamente in quello stesso momento uno scozzese con un mantello all’Inverness entrò chiedendo aspramente whisky. Jukes vide che l’unica sua chance era fingersi il barista e servire il cliente. Fu assai sollevato che il cliente fosse Uno Svelto.»

«Penso che siate piuttosto Uno Svelto voi stesso», osservò Greenwood; «se dite di aver fiutato qualcosa fin dal principio, nella mera aria di una stanza vuota. Sospettaste affatto di Jukes, all’inizio?»

«Beh, suonava piuttosto opulento, in qualche modo», rispose Father Brown vagamente. «Sapete, quando un uomo ha una voce opulenta. E mi domandai davvero perché mai dovesse avere una voce così disgustosamente opulenta, quando tutti quei bravi compari erano piuttosto poveri. Ma credo che seppi che era un impostore quando vidi quella grossa lucente spilla da petto.»

«Volete dire perché era falsa?» chiese Greenwood, dubbioso.

«Oh, no; perché era autentica», disse Father Brown.

THREE: The Blast of the Book

Professor Openshaw always lost his temper, with a loud bang, if anybody called him a Spiritualist; or a believer in Spiritualism. This, however, did not exhaust his explosive elements; for he also lost his temper if anybody called him a disbeliever in Spiritualism. It was his pride to have given his whole life to investigating Psychic Phenomena; it was also his pride never to have given a hint of whether he thought they were really psychic or merely phenomenal. He enjoyed nothing so much as to sit in a circle of devout Spiritualists and give devastating descriptions of how he had exposed medium after medium and detected fraud after fraud; for indeed he was a man of much detective talent and insight, when once he had fixed his eye on an object, and he always fixed his eye on a medium, as a highly suspicious object. There was a story of his having spotted the same Spiritualist mountebank under three different disguises: dressed as a woman, a white - bearded old man, and a Brahmin of a rich chocolate brown. These recitals made the true believers rather restless, as indeed they were intended to do; but they could hardly complain, for no Spiritualist denies the existence of fraudulent mediums; only the Professor’s flowing narrative might well seem to indicate that all mediums were fraudulent.

But woe to the simple - minded and innocent Materialist (and Materialists as a race are rather innocent and simple - minded) who, presuming on this narrative tendency, should advance the thesis that ghosts were against the laws of nature, or that such things were only old superstitions; or that it was all tosh, or, alternatively, bunk. Him would the Professor, suddenly reversing all his scientific batteries, sweep from the field with a cannonade of unquestionable cases and unexplained phenomena, of which the wretched rationalist had never heard in his life, giving all the dates and details, stating all the attempted and abandoned natural explanations; stating everything, indeed, except whether he, John Oliver Openshaw, did or did not believe in Spirits, and that neither Spiritualist nor Materialist could ever boast of finding out.

Professor Openshaw, a lean figure with pale leonine hair and hypnotic blue eyes, stood exchanging a few words with Father Brown, who was a friend of his, on the steps outside the hotel where both had been breakfasting that morning and sleeping the night before. The Professor had come back rather late from one of this grand experiments, in general exasperation, and was still tingling with the fight that he always waged alone and against both sides.

‘Oh, I don’t mind you,’ he said laughing. ‘You don’t believe in it even if it’s true. But all these people are perpetually asking me what I’m trying to prove. They don’t seem to understand that I’m a man of science. A man of science isn’t trying to prove anything. He’s trying to find out what will prove itself.’

‘But he hasn’t found out yet,’ said Father Brown.

‘Well, I have some little notions of my own, that are not quite so negative as most people think,’ answered the Professor, after an instant of frowning silence; ‘anyhow, I’ve begun to fancy that if there is something to be found, they’re looking for it along the wrong line. It’s all too theatrical; it’s showing off, all their shiny ectoplasm and trumpets and voices and the rest; all on the model of old melodramas and mouldy historical novels about the Family Ghost. If they’d go to history instead of historical novels, I’m beginning to think they’d really find something. But not Apparitions.’

‘After all,’ said Father Brown, ‘Apparitions are only Appearances. I suppose you’d say the Family Ghost is only keeping up appearances.’

The Professor’s gaze, which had commonly a fine abstracted character, suddenly fixed and focused itself as it did on a dubious medium. It had rather the air of a man screwing a strong magnifying - glass into his eye. Not that he thought the priest was in the least like a dubious medium; but he was startled into attention by his friend’s thought following so closely on his own.

‘Appearances!’ he muttered, ‘crikey, but it’s odd you should say that just now. The more I learn, the more I fancy they lose by merely looking for appearances. Now if they’d look a little into Disappearances - ’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, ‘after all, the real fairy legends weren’t so very much about the appearance of famous fairies; calling up Titania or exhibiting Oberon by moonlight. But there were no end of legends about people disappearing, because they were stolen by the fairies. Are you on the track of Kilmeny or Thomas the Rhymer?’

‘I’m on the track of ordinary modern people you’ve read of in the newspapers,’ answered Openshaw. ‘You may well stare; but that’s my game just now; and I’ve been on it for a long time. Frankly, I think a lot of psychic appearances could be explained away. It’s the disappearances I can’t explain, unless they’re psychic. These people in the newspaper who vanish and are never found - if you knew the details as I do … and now only this morning I got confirmation; an extraordinary letter from an old missionary, quite a respectable old boy. He’s coming to see me at my office this morning. Perhaps you’d lunch with me or something; and I’d tell the results - in confidence.’

‘Thanks; I will - unless,’ said Father Brown modestly, ‘the fairies have stolen me by then.’

With that they parted and Openshaw walked round the corner to a small office he rented in the neighbourhood; chiefly for the publication of a small periodical, of psychical and psychological notes of the driest and most agnostic sort. He had only one clerk, who sat at a desk in the outer office, totting up figures and facts for the purposes of the printed report; and the Professor paused to ask if Mr Pringle had called. The clerk answered mechanically in the negative and went on mechanically adding up figures; and the Professor turned towards the inner room that was his study. ‘Oh, by the way, Berridge,’ he added, without turning round, ‘if Mr Pringle comes, send him straight in to me. You needn’t interrupt your work; I rather want those notes finished tonight if possible. You might leave them on my desk tomorrow, if I am late.’

TRE: L’esplosione del libro

Il professor Openshaw perdeva sempre le staffe, con un fragoroso scoppio, se qualcuno lo chiamava spiritista, o credente nello spiritismo. Questo, tuttavia, non esauriva la sua carica esplosiva; giacché perdeva le staffe anche se qualcuno lo chiamava miscredente in fatto di spiritismo. Era suo orgoglio aver dedicato l’intera vita all’indagine dei fenomeni psichici; ma era altresì suo orgoglio non aver mai lasciato trapelare il minimo indizio se li ritenesse davvero psichici o meramente fenomenici. Nulla lo dilettava quanto sedere in un circolo di devoti spiritisti e fornire descrizioni devastanti di come avesse smascherato medium dopo medium e scoperto frode dopo frode; poiché in verità era uomo di molto talento e acume da investigatore, una volta che avesse fissato l’occhio su un oggetto, e fissava sempre l’occhio su un medium, come sull’oggetto più sospetto. Correva voce che avesse smascherato lo stesso ciarlatano spiritista sotto tre travestimenti diversi: vestito da donna, da vecchio dalla barba bianca, e da bramino di un ricco color cioccolato. Simili resoconti rendevano i veri credenti alquanto inquieti, come del resto era loro intento; ma essi non potevano poi lagnarsene, giacché nessuno spiritista nega l’esistenza di medium fraudolenti; solo che la fluente narrazione del Professore poteva ben far intendere che tutti i medium fossero fraudolenti.

Ma guai al materialista ingenuo e innocente (e i materialisti come razza sono piuttosto innocenti e ingenui) che, facendo affidamento su questa tendenza narrativa, avesse osato avanzare la tesi che i fantasmi fossero contrari alle leggi di natura, o che tali cose fossero soltanto vecchie superstizioni; o che fossero tutte fandonie, o, in alternativa, sciocchezze. Costui il Professore, rovesciando d’un tratto tutte le sue batterie scientifiche, avrebbe spazzato via dal campo con una cannonata di casi incontestabili e di fenomeni inspiegati, dei quali il misero razionalista non aveva mai udito in vita sua, snocciolando tutte le date e i particolari, esponendo tutte le spiegazioni naturali tentate e abbandonate; esponendo ogni cosa, in verità, tranne se lui, John Oliver Openshaw, credesse o no negli spiriti, e ciò né lo spiritista né il materialista poterono mai vantarsi di aver scoperto.

Il professor Openshaw, figura magra dai capelli pallidi e leonini e dagli occhi azzurri e ipnotici, se ne stava a scambiare qualche parola con Father Brown, che gli era amico, sui gradini davanti all’albergo dove entrambi avevano fatto colazione quella mattina e dormito la notte precedente. Il Professore era rientrato piuttosto tardi da uno dei suoi grandi esperimenti, in preda a una generale esasperazione, e ancora fremeva per la battaglia che combatteva sempre da solo e contro entrambe le fazioni.

«Oh, voi non m’importate,» disse ridendo. «Voi non ci credete nemmeno se è vero. Ma tutta questa gente continua a chiedermi che cosa cerco di dimostrare. Non pare capire che sono un uomo di scienza. Un uomo di scienza non cerca di dimostrare alcunché. Cerca di scoprire ciò che si dimostrerà da sé.»

«Ma non l’ha ancora scoperto,» disse Father Brown.

«Ebbene, ho qualche mia piccola idea, non del tutto così negativa come la maggior parte crede,» rispose il Professore, dopo un istante di silenzio accigliato; «comunque, ho cominciato a pensare che, se c’è qualcosa da trovare, lo cercano lungo la strada sbagliata. È tutto troppo teatrale; è pura ostentazione, tutto quel loro lucido ectoplasma e le trombe e le voci e il resto; tutto sul modello dei vecchi melodrammi e dei muffiti romanzi storici sul Fantasma di Famiglia. Se andassero alla storia invece che ai romanzi storici, comincio a credere che troverebbero davvero qualcosa. Ma non apparizioni.»

«Dopo tutto,» disse Father Brown, «le apparizioni sono soltanto apparenze. Suppongo direste che il Fantasma di Famiglia si limita a salvare le apparenze.»

Lo sguardo del Professore, che di solito aveva un bel carattere distratto, d’un tratto si fissò e si mise a fuoco come faceva su un medium dubbio. Aveva piuttosto l’aria di un uomo che si avvita nell’occhio una potente lente d’ingrandimento. Non che ritenesse il prete minimamente simile a un medium dubbio; ma fu colto di sorpresa e attirato dall’attenzione dal fatto che il pensiero dell’amico seguisse così da presso il proprio.

«Apperbacco!» mormorò, «però è strano che diciate proprio questo, adesso. Più imparo, più mi pare che ci perdano a cercare soltanto le apparenze. Ora, se guardassero un po’ alle Scomparse…»

«Sì,» disse Father Brown, «dopo tutto, le vere leggende sulle fate non parlavano poi tanto dell’apparizione di fate famose; dell’evocare Titania o del mostrare Oberon al chiaro di luna. Ma c’erano leggende senza fine su gente che spariva, perché rapita dalle fate. Siete sulle tracce di Kilmeny o di Thomas il Rimatore?»

«Sono sulle tracce di gente comune e moderna, di cui avete letto sui giornali,» rispose Openshaw. «Potete ben sgranare gli occhi; ma quello è il mio gioco in questo momento; e ci sono su da parecchio tempo. Francamente, credo che molte apparizioni psichiche si potrebbero spiegare via. Sono le scomparse che non riesco a spiegare, a meno che non siano psichiche. Quella gente sui giornali che svanisce e non viene più ritrovata… se ne conosceste i particolari come li conosco io… e proprio stamattina ho avuto una conferma; una lettera straordinaria da un vecchio missionario, un vecchietto assai rispettabile. Verrà a trovarmi al mio ufficio stamane. Forse potreste pranzare con me o qualcosa del genere; e vi racconterei i risultati… in confidenza.»

«Grazie; verrò… a meno che,» disse Father Brown modestamente, «le fate non mi abbiano rapito nel frattempo.»

Con ciò si separarono, e Openshaw voltò l’angolo verso un piccolo ufficio che teneva in affitto nel vicinato; principalmente per la pubblicazione di un piccolo periodico, di note psichiche e psicologiche del genere più arido e agnostico. Aveva un solo impiegato, che sedeva a una scrivania nell’ufficio esterno, sommando cifre e fatti ai fini della relazione a stampa; e il Professore si fermò a domandare se il signor Pringle avesse chiamato. L’impiegato rispose meccanicamente di no e continuò meccanicamente ad addizionare cifre; e il Professore si diresse verso la stanza interna che gli faceva da studio. «Ah, a proposito, Berridge,» aggiunse, senza voltarsi, «se viene il signor Pringle, mandatemelo dentro subito. Non c’è bisogno che interrompiate il vostro lavoro; anzi, vorrei quelle note finite stasera, se possibile. Potreste lasciarmele sulla scrivania domani, se faccio tardi.»

And he went into his private office, still brooding on the problem which the name of Pringle had raised; or rather, perhaps, had ratified and confirmed in his mind. Even the most perfectly balanced of agnostics is partially human; and it is possible that the missionary’s letter seemed to have greater weight as promising to support his private and still tentative hypothesis. He sat down in his large and comfortable chair, opposite the engraving of Montaigne; and read once more the short letter from the Rev. Luke Pringle, making the appointment for that morning. No man knew better than Professor Openshaw the marks of the letter of the crank; the crowded details; the spidery handwriting; the unnecessary length and repetition. There were none of these things in this case; but a brief and businesslike typewritten statement that the writer had encountered some curious cases of Disappearance, which seemed to fall within the province of the Professor as a student of psychic problems. The Professor was favourably impressed; nor had he any unfavourable impression, in spite of a slight movement of surprise, when he looked up and saw that the Rev. Luke Pringle was already in the room.

‘Your clerk told me to come straight in,’ said Mr Pringle apologetically, but with a broad and rather agreeable grin. The grin was partly masked by masses of reddish - grey beard and whiskers; a perfect jungle of a beard, such as is sometimes grown by white men living in the jungles; but the eyes above the snub nose had nothing about them in the least wild or outlandish. Openshaw had instantly turned on them that concentrated spotlight or burning - glass of sceptical scrutiny which he turned on many men to see if they were mountebanks or maniacs; and, in this case, he had a rather unusual sense of reassurance. The wild beard might have belonged to a crank, but the eyes completely contradicted the beard; they were full of that quite frank and friendly laughter which is never found in the faces of those who are serious frauds or serious lunatics. He would have expected a man with those eyes to be a Philistine, a jolly sceptic, a man who shouted out shallow but hearty contempt of ghosts and spirits; but anyhow, no professional humbug could afford to look as frivolous as that. The man was buttoned up to the throat in a shabby old cape, and only his broad limp hat suggested the cleric; but missionaries from wild places do not always bother to dress like clerics.

‘You probably think all this another hoax. Professor,’ said Mr Pringle, with a sort of abstract enjoyment, ‘and I hope you will forgive my laughing at your very natural air of disapproval. All the same, I’ve got to tell my story to somebody who knows, because it’s true. And, all joking apart, it’s tragic as well as true. Well, to cut it short, I was missionary in Nya - Nya, a station in West Africa, in the thick of the forests, where almost the only other white man was the officer in command of the district, Captain Wales; and he and I grew rather thick. Not that he liked missions; he was, if I may say so, thick in many ways; one of those square - headed, square - shouldered men of action who hardly need to think, let alone believe.

That’s what makes it all the queerer. One day he came back to his tent in the forest, after a short leave, and said he had gone through a jolly rum experience, and didn’t know what to do about it. He was holding a rusty old book in a leather binding, and he put it down on a table beside his revolver and an old Arab sword he kept, probably as a curiosity. He said this book had belonged to a man on the boat he had just come off; and the man swore that nobody must open the book, or look inside it; or else they would be carried off by the devil, or disappear, or something. Wales said this was all nonsense, of course; and they had a quarrel; and the upshot seems to have been that this man, taunted with cowardice or superstition, actually did look into the book; and instantly dropped it; walked to the side of the boat - ’

‘One moment,’ said the Professor, who had made one or two notes. ‘Before you tell me anything else. Did this man tell Wales where he had got the book, or who it originally belonged to?’

‘Yes,’ replied Pringle, now entirely grave. ‘It seems he said he was bringing it back to Dr Hankey, the Oriental traveller now in England, to whom it originally belonged, and who had warned him of its strange properties. Well, Hankey is an able man and a rather crabbed and sneering sort of man; which makes it queerer still. But the point of Wales’s story is much simpler. It is that the man who had looked into the book walked straight over the side of the ship, and was never seen again.’

‘Do you believe it yourself?’ asked Openshaw after a pause.

‘Well, I do,’ replied Pringle. ‘I believe it for two reasons. First, that Wales was an entirely unimaginative man; and he added one touch that only an imaginative man could have added. He said that the man walked straight over the side on a still and calm day; but there was no splash.’

The Professor looked at his notes for some seconds in silence; and then said: ‘And your other reason for believing it?’

‘My other reason,’ answered the Rev. Luke Pringle, ‘is what I saw myself.’

There was another silence; until he continued in the same matter - of - fact way. Whatever he had, he had nothing of the eagerness with which the crank, or even the believer, tried to convince others.

‘I told you that Wales put down the book on the table beside the sword. There was only one entrance to the tent; and it happened that I was standing in it, looking out into the forest, with my back to my companion. He was standing by the table grumbling and growling about the whole business; saying it was tomfoolery in the twentieth century to be frightened of opening a book; asking why the devil he shouldn’t open it himself. Then some instinct stirred in me and I said he had better not do that, it had better be returned to Dr Hankey. “What harm could it do?” he said restlessly. “What harm did it do?” I answered obstinately. “What happened to your friend on the boat?” He didn’t answer, indeed I didn’t know what he could answer; but I pressed my logical advantage in mere vanity. “If it comes to that,” I said, “what is your version of what really happened on the boat?” Still he didn’t answer; and I looked round and saw that he wasn’t there.

Ed entrò nel suo ufficio privato, ancora rimuginando sul problema che il nome di Pringle aveva sollevato; o piuttosto, forse, ratificato e confermato nella sua mente. Perfino il più perfettamente equilibrato degli agnostici è in parte umano; ed è possibile che la lettera del missionario paresse acquistare maggior peso in quanto prometteva di sostenere la sua ipotesi privata e ancora provvisoria. Sedette nella sua ampia e comoda poltrona, di fronte all’incisione di Montaigne; e rilesse la breve lettera del reverendo Luke Pringle, che fissava l’appuntamento per quella mattina. Nessuno conosceva meglio del professor Openshaw i segni distintivi della lettera dell’esaltato; i particolari accalcati; la calligrafia ragnesca; la lunghezza e le ripetizioni superflue. Di tutto ciò non v’era traccia in questo caso; solo una breve e sbrigativa dichiarazione dattiloscritta secondo cui lo scrivente si era imbattuto in alcuni curiosi casi di Scomparsa, che parevano rientrare nel campo del Professore in quanto studioso di problemi psichici. Il Professore ne ricevette un’impressione favorevole; né ne ebbe alcuna sfavorevole, malgrado un lieve moto di sorpresa, quando alzò lo sguardo e vide che il reverendo Luke Pringle era già nella stanza.

«Il vostro impiegato mi ha detto di entrare direttamente,» disse il signor Pringle in tono di scusa, ma con un largo e piuttosto piacevole sorriso. Il sorriso era in parte celato da masse di barba e favoriti di un grigio rossastro; una perfetta giungla di barba, quale talvolta la portano gli uomini bianchi che vivono nelle giungle; ma gli occhi sopra il naso camuso non avevano nulla in loro di minimamente selvaggio o strampalato. Openshaw aveva subito puntato su di essi quel riflettore concentrato o quella lente ustoria di scrutinio scettico che rivolgeva a molti uomini per vedere se fossero ciarlatani o maniaci; e, in questo caso, provò un senso di rassicurazione piuttosto insolito. La barba selvaggia poteva ben appartenere a un esaltato, ma gli occhi contraddicevano interamente la barba; erano colmi di quella risata del tutto schietta e amichevole che non si trova mai sui volti di chi è un serio impostore o un serio pazzo. Egli si sarebbe aspettato che un uomo con quegli occhi fosse un filisteo, un allegro scettico, un uomo che sbraitasse un disprezzo superficiale ma cordiale verso fantasmi e spiriti; ma in ogni caso, nessun ciarlatano di professione poteva permettersi di sembrare tanto frivolo. L’uomo era abbottonato fino alla gola in un vecchio e logoro mantello, e solo il suo largo cappello floscio suggeriva il chierico; ma i missionari dei luoghi selvaggi non sempre si preoccupano di vestire da chierici.

«Probabilmente crederete che tutto questo sia un altro imbroglio, Professore,» disse il signor Pringle, con una sorta di astratto godimento, «e spero mi perdonerete se rido della vostra assai naturale aria di disapprovazione. Ciò nondimeno, devo raccontare la mia storia a qualcuno che se ne intende, perché è vera. E, scherzi a parte, è tragica oltre che vera. Ebbene, per farla breve, ero missionario a Nya-Nya, una stazione dell’Africa occidentale, nel folto delle foreste, dove quasi l’unico altro uomo bianco era l’ufficiale al comando del distretto, il capitano Wales; e lui e io divenimmo piuttosto intimi. Non che a lui piacessero le missioni; era, se posso dir così, ottuso sotto molti aspetti; uno di quegli uomini d’azione dalla testa quadra e dalle spalle quadre che quasi non hanno bisogno di pensare, e ancor meno di credere.

Ed è questo che rende il tutto ancora più strano. Un giorno tornò alla sua tenda nella foresta, dopo una breve licenza, e disse di aver vissuto un’esperienza maledettamente bizzarra, e di non sapere che farci. Reggeva un vecchio libro arrugginito dalla rilegatura in cuoio, e lo posò su un tavolo accanto alla sua rivoltella e a una vecchia spada araba che teneva, probabilmente come curiosità. Disse che quel libro era appartenuto a un uomo del piroscafo da cui era appena sbarcato; e che quell’uomo giurava che nessuno dovesse aprire il libro, né guardarvi dentro; altrimenti sarebbe stato portato via dal diavolo, o sarebbe scomparso, o qualcosa del genere. Wales disse che erano tutte sciocchezze, naturalmente; e vennero a diverbio; e pare che il risultato fosse che quest’uomo, punto sul vivo dall’accusa di codardia o superstizione, guardò davvero dentro il libro; e all’istante lo lasciò cadere; camminò verso il fianco del piroscafo…»

«Un momento,» disse il Professore, che aveva preso una o due note. «Prima che mi diciate altro. Quest’uomo disse a Wales dove aveva preso il libro, o a chi originariamente appartenesse?»

«Sì,» rispose Pringle, ora del tutto serio. «Pare che avesse detto di riportarlo al dottor Hankey, il viaggiatore orientalista ora in Inghilterra, al quale originariamente apparteneva, e che l’aveva messo in guardia sulle sue strane proprietà. Ebbene, Hankey è un uomo capace e un tipo piuttosto acido e beffardo; il che lo rende ancora più strano. Ma il nocciolo della storia di Wales è assai più semplice. È che l’uomo che aveva guardato dentro il libro camminò dritto oltre il fianco della nave, e non fu mai più rivisto.»

«Ci credete voi stesso?» chiese Openshaw dopo una pausa.

«Ebbene, sì,» rispose Pringle. «Ci credo per due ragioni. La prima, che Wales era un uomo del tutto privo d’immaginazione; eppure aggiunse un tocco che solo un uomo dotato d’immaginazione avrebbe potuto aggiungere. Disse che l’uomo camminò dritto oltre il fianco in una giornata immota e serena; ma non ci fu alcun tonfo.»

Il Professore fissò le sue note per alcuni secondi in silenzio; poi disse: «E la vostra altra ragione per crederci?»

«La mia altra ragione,» rispose il reverendo Luke Pringle, «è ciò che vidi io stesso.»

Vi fu un altro silenzio; finché egli riprese nello stesso tono di chi constata un fatto. Qualunque cosa avesse, non aveva nulla della smania con cui l’esaltato, o perfino il credente, cerca di convincere gli altri.

«Vi ho detto che Wales posò il libro sul tavolo accanto alla spada. C’era un solo ingresso alla tenda; e si dava il caso che io vi stessi in piedi, guardando fuori nella foresta, con le spalle al mio compagno. Egli era in piedi presso il tavolo, brontolando e ringhiando sull’intera faccenda; dicendo che era una buffonata, nel ventesimo secolo, aver paura di aprire un libro; chiedendo perché diavolo non dovesse aprirlo lui stesso. Allora qualche istinto si mosse in me e dissi che era meglio non lo facesse, che era meglio restituirlo al dottor Hankey. “Che male potrebbe fare?” disse irrequieto. “Che male ha fatto?” risposi ostinatamente. “Che cosa è successo al vostro amico sul piroscafo?” Non rispose, e in verità non sapevo che cosa potesse rispondere; ma io incalzai il mio vantaggio logico per pura vanità. “Se è per questo,” dissi, “qual è la vostra versione di ciò che accadde davvero sul piroscafo?” Continuava a non rispondere; e mi voltai e vidi che non c’era più.

‘The tent was empty. The book was lying on the table; open, but on its face, as if he had turned it downwards. But the sword was lying on the ground near the other side of the tent; and the canvas of the tent showed a great slash, as if somebody had hacked his way out with the sword. The gash in the tent gaped at me; but showed only the dark glimmer of the forest outside. And when I went across and looked through the rent I could not be certain whether the tangle of the tall plants and the undergrowth had been bent or broken; at least not farther than a few feet. I have never seen or heard of Captain Wales from that day.

‘I wrapped the book up in brown paper, taking good care not to look at it; and I brought it back to England, intending at first to return it to Dr Hankey. Then I saw some notes in your paper suggesting a hypothesis about such things; and I decided to stop on the way and put the matter before you; as you have a name for being balanced and having an open mind.’

Professor Openshaw laid down his pen and looked steadily at the man on the other side of the table; concentrating in that single stare all his long experience of many entirely different types of humbug, and even some eccentric and extraordinary types of honest men. In the ordinary way, he would have begun with the healthy hypothesis that the story was a pack of lies. On the whole he did incline to assume that it was a pack of lies. And yet he could not fit the man into his story; if it were only that he could not see that sort of liar telling that sort of lie. The man was not trying to look honest on the surface, as most quacks and impostors do; somehow, it seemed all the other way; as if the man was honest, in spite of something else that was merely on the surface. He thought of a good man with one innocent delusion; but again the symptoms were not the same; there was even a sort of virile indifference; as if the man did not care much about his delusion, if it was a delusion.

‘Mr Pringle,’ he said sharply, like a barrister making a witness jump, ‘where is this book of yours now?’

The grin reappeared on the bearded face which had grown grave during the recital. ‘I left it outside,’ said Mr Pringle. ‘I mean in the outer office. It was a risk, perhaps; but the less risk of the two.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded the Professor. ‘Why didn’t you bring it straight in here?’

‘Because,’ answered the missionary, ‘I knew that as soon as you saw it, you’d open it - before you had heard the story. I thought it possible you might think twice about opening it - after you’d heard the story.’

Then after a silence he added: ‘There was nobody out there but your clerk; and he looked a stolid steady - going specimen, immersed in business calculations.’

Openshaw laughed unaffectedly. ‘Oh, Babbage,’ he cried, ‘your magic tomes are safe enough with him, I assure you. His name’s Berridge - but I often call him Babbage; because he’s so exactly like a Calculating Machine. No human being, if you can call him a human being, would be less likely to open other people’s brown paper parcels. Well, we may as well go and bring it in now; though I assure you I will consider seriously the course to be taken with it. Indeed, I tell you frankly,’ and he stared at the man again, ‘that I’m not quite sure whether we ought to open it here and now, or send it to this Dr Hankey.’

The two had passed together out of the inner into the outer office; and even as they did so, Mr Pringle gave a cry and ran forward towards the clerk’s desk. For the clerk’s desk was there; but not the clerk. On the clerk’s desk lay a faded old leather book, torn out of its brown - paper wrappings, and lying closed, but as if it had just been opened. The clerk’s desk stood against the wide window that looked out into the street; and the window was shattered with a huge ragged hole in the glass; as if a human body had been shot through it into the world without. There was no other trace of Mr Berridge.

Both the two men left in the office stood as still as statues; and then it was the Professor who slowly came to life. He looked even more judicial than he had ever looked in his life, as he slowly turned and held out his hand to the missionary.

‘Mr Pringle,’ he said, ‘I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon only for thoughts that I have had; and half - thoughts at that. But nobody could call himself a scientific man and not face a fact like this.’

‘I suppose,’ said Pringle doubtfully, ‘that we ought to make some inquiries. Can you ring up his house and find out if he has gone home?’

‘I don’t know that he’s on the telephone,’ answered Openshaw, rather absently; ‘he lives somewhere up Hampstead way, I think. But I suppose somebody will inquire here, if his friends or family miss him.’

‘Could we furnish a description,’ asked the other, ‘if the police want it?’

‘The police!’ said the Professor, starting from his reverie. ‘A description … Well, he looked awfully like everybody else, I’m afraid, except for goggles. One of those clean - shaven chaps. But the police … look here, what are we to do about this mad business?’

‘I know what I ought to do,’ said the Rev. Mr Pringle firmly, ‘I am going to take this book straight to the only original Dr Hankey, and ask him what the devil it’s all about. He lives not very far from here, and I’ll come straight back and tell you what he says.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said the Professor at last, as he sat down rather wearily; perhaps relieved for the moment to be rid of the responsibility. But long after the brisk and ringing footsteps of the little missionary had died away down the street, the Professor sat in the same posture, staring into vacancy like a man in a trance.

He was still in the same seat and almost in the same attitude, when the same brisk footsteps were heard on the pavement without and the missionary entered, this time, as a glance assured him, with empty hands.

«La tenda era vuota. Il libro giaceva sul tavolo; aperto, ma capovolto, come se l’avesse rovesciato a faccia in giù. Ma la spada giaceva a terra presso l’altro lato della tenda; e il telo della tenda mostrava un ampio squarcio, come se qualcuno si fosse aperto un varco a colpi di spada. Il taglio nella tenda mi si spalancava davanti; ma mostrava soltanto il buio barlume della foresta là fuori. E quando attraversai e guardai attraverso lo strappo, non potei accertarmi se il groviglio delle alte piante e del sottobosco fosse stato piegato o spezzato; almeno non oltre pochi piedi. Non ho mai più visto né sentito nominare il capitano Wales da quel giorno.

«Avvolsi il libro nella carta marrone, avendo ben cura di non guardarlo; e lo riportai in Inghilterra, intenzionato dapprima a restituirlo al dottor Hankey. Poi vidi certe note sulla vostra rivista che suggerivano un’ipotesi su simili faccende; e decisi di fermarmi lungo la strada e sottoporvi la questione; giacché avete fama di essere equilibrato e di mente aperta.»

Il professor Openshaw posò la penna e guardò fisso l’uomo dall’altra parte del tavolo; concentrando in quell’unico sguardo tutta la sua lunga esperienza di molti tipi affatto diversi di ciarlataneria, e perfino di certi tipi eccentrici e straordinari di uomini onesti. In circostanze normali, avrebbe cominciato con la salubre ipotesi che la storia fosse un mucchio di menzogne. Nel complesso, propendeva davvero a supporre che fosse un mucchio di menzogne. Eppure non riusciva a incastrare l’uomo nella sua storia; non fosse altro perché non riusciva a immaginare quel tipo di bugiardo raccontare quel tipo di bugia. L’uomo non cercava di apparire onesto in superficie, come fanno la maggior parte dei ciurmadori e degli impostori; in qualche modo, sembrava tutto il contrario; come se l’uomo fosse onesto, malgrado qualcos’altro che stava soltanto in superficie. Pensò a un uomo buono con un’unica innocente illusione; ma di nuovo i sintomi non erano gli stessi; c’era perfino una sorta di virile indifferenza; come se l’uomo non tenesse gran che alla sua illusione, ammesso che fosse un’illusione.

«Signor Pringle,» disse bruscamente, come un avvocato che fa sobbalzare un testimone, «dov’è ora questo vostro libro?»

Il sorriso riapparve sul volto barbuto che si era fatto serio durante il racconto. «L’ho lasciato fuori,» disse il signor Pringle. «Voglio dire nell’ufficio esterno. Era forse un rischio; ma il minore dei due.»

«Che cosa intendete?» chiese il Professore. «Perché non l’avete portato direttamente qui dentro?»

«Perché,» rispose il missionario, «sapevo che, appena l’aveste visto, l’avreste aperto… prima di aver udito la storia. Ho pensato che forse ci avreste pensato due volte prima di aprirlo… dopo aver udito la storia.»

Poi, dopo un silenzio, aggiunse: «Là fuori non c’era nessuno tranne il vostro impiegato; e mi è parso un esemplare flemmatico e posato, immerso in calcoli d’affari.»

Openshaw rise senza affettazione. «Oh, Babbage,» esclamò, «i vostri tomi magici sono al sicuro con lui, ve l’assicuro. Si chiama Berridge… ma io spesso lo chiamo Babbage; perché è esattamente identico a una Macchina Calcolatrice. Nessun essere umano, se lo si può chiamare essere umano, sarebbe meno propenso ad aprire i pacchi di carta marrone altrui. Ebbene, tanto vale che andiamo a prenderlo ora; benché vi assicuri che rifletterò seriamente sul da farsi con esso. Anzi, ve lo dico francamente,» e fissò di nuovo l’uomo, «non sono affatto sicuro se dovremmo aprirlo qui e ora, oppure mandarlo a questo dottor Hankey.»

I due erano usciti insieme dall’ufficio interno a quello esterno; e proprio mentre lo facevano, il signor Pringle diede un grido e si precipitò verso la scrivania dell’impiegato. Poiché la scrivania dell’impiegato era là; ma non l’impiegato. Sulla scrivania dell’impiegato giaceva un vecchio libro sbiadito in cuoio, strappato via dai suoi involti di carta marrone, e posato chiuso, ma come se fosse stato appena aperto. La scrivania dell’impiegato era addossata all’ampia finestra che guardava sulla strada; e la finestra era in frantumi, con un enorme buco frastagliato nel vetro; come se un corpo umano vi fosse stato scagliato attraverso nel mondo esterno. Non v’era altra traccia del signor Berridge.

I due uomini rimasti nell’ufficio se ne stavano immobili come statue; e poi fu il Professore che lentamente tornò in vita. Aveva un’aria ancor più giudiziosa di quanta ne avesse mai avuta in vita sua, mentre lentamente si voltava e porgeva la mano al missionario.

«Signor Pringle,» disse, «vi chiedo scusa. Vi chiedo scusa soltanto per i pensieri che ho avuto; e mezzi pensieri, per giunta. Ma nessuno potrebbe dirsi uomo di scienza e non affrontare un fatto come questo.»

«Suppongo,» disse Pringle dubbioso, «che dovremmo fare qualche indagine. Potete telefonare a casa sua e scoprire se è tornato a casa?»

«Non so se abbia il telefono,» rispose Openshaw, piuttosto distrattamente; «abita da qualche parte dalle parti di Hampstead, credo. Ma suppongo che qualcuno verrà a informarsi qui, se i suoi amici o la sua famiglia ne sentiranno la mancanza.»

«Potremmo fornire una descrizione,» chiese l’altro, «se la polizia la volesse?»

«La polizia!» disse il Professore, riscuotendosi dalla sua fantasticheria. «Una descrizione… Be’!, mi sa che somigliava terribilmente a tutti gli altri, temo, tranne che per gli occhiali. Uno di quei tizi ben rasati. Ma la polizia… sentite un po’, che dobbiamo fare di questa folle faccenda?»

«So io che cosa dovrei fare,» disse fermamente il reverendo signor Pringle, «vado a portare questo libro dritto all’unico e originale dottor Hankey, e a chiedergli che diavolo significa tutto ciò. Abita non molto lontano da qui, e tornerò subito a dirvi che cosa dice.»

«Oh, benissimo allora,» disse infine il Professore, sedendosi piuttosto spossato; forse sollevato, per il momento, di essersi liberato della responsabilità. Ma molto tempo dopo che i passi svelti e squillanti del piccolo missionario si furono spenti lungo la strada, il Professore sedeva nella stessa posa, fissando il vuoto come un uomo in trance.

Era ancora nella stessa poltrona e quasi nella stessa posizione, quando gli stessi passi svelti si udirono sul selciato là fuori e il missionario entrò, questa volta, come un’occhiata lo assicurò, a mani vuote.

‘Dr Hankey,’ said Pringle gravely, ‘wants to keep the book for an hour and consider the point. Then he asks us both to call, and he will give us his decision. He specially desired. Professor, that you should accompany me on the second visit.’

Openshaw continued to stare in silence; then he said, suddenly: ‘Who the devil is Dr Hankey?’

‘You sound rather as if you meant he was the devil,’ said Pringle smiling, ‘and I fancy some people have thought so. He had quite a reputation in your own line; but he gained it mostly in India, studying local magic and so on, so perhaps he’s not so well known here. He is a yellow skinny little devil with a lame leg, and a doubtful temper; but he seems to have set up in an ordinary respectable practice in these parts, and I don’t know anything definitely wrong about him - unless it’s wrong to be the only person who can possibly know anything about all this crazy affair.’

Professor Openshaw rose heavily and went to the telephone; he rang up Father Brown, changing the luncheon engagement to a dinner, that he might hold himself free for the expedition to the house of the Anglo - Indian doctor; after that he sat down again, lit a cigar and sank once more into his own unfathomable thoughts.

Father Brown went round to the restaurant appointed for dinner, and kicked his heels for some time in a vestibule full of mirrors and palms in pots; he had been informed of Openshaw’s afternoon engagement, and, as the evening closed - in dark and stormy round the glass and the green plants, guessed that it had produced something unexpected and unduly prolonged. He even wondered for a moment whether the Professor would turn up at all; but when the Professor eventually did, it was clear that his own more general guesses had been justified. For it was a very wild

• eyed and even wild - haired Professor who eventually drove back with Mr Pringle from the expedition to the North of London, where suburbs are still fringed with heathy wastes and scraps of common, looking more sombre under the rather thunderstorm sunset. Nevertheless, they had apparently found the house, standing a little apart though within hail of other houses; they had verified the brass - plate duly engraved: ‘J. I. Hankey, MD, MRCS.’ Only they did not find J. I. Hankey, MD, MRCS. They found only what a nightmare whisper had already subconsciously prepared them to find: a commonplace parlour with the accursed volume lying on the table, as if it had just been read; and beyond, a back door burst open and a faint trail of footsteps that ran a little way up so steep a garden - path that it seemed that no lame man could have run up so lightly. But it was a lame man who had run; for in those few steps there was the misshapen unequal mark of some sort of surgical boot; then two marks of that boot alone (as if the creature had hopped) and then nothing. There was nothing further to be learnt from Dr J. I. Hankey, except that he had made his decision. He had read the oracle and received the doom.

When the two came into the entrance under the palms, Pringle put the book down suddenly on a small table, as if it burned his fingers. The priest glanced at it curiously; there was only some rude lettering on the front with a couplet:

They that looked into this book Them the Flying Terror took;

and underneath, as he afterwards discovered, similar warnings in Greek, Latin and French. The other two had turned away with a natural impulsion towards drinks, after their exhaustion and bewilderment; and Openshaw had called to the waiter, who brought cocktails on a tray.

‘You will dine with us, I hope,’ said the Professor to the missionary; but Mr Pringle amiably shook his head.

‘If you’ll forgive me,’ he said, ‘I’m going off to wrestle with this book and this business by myself somewhere. I suppose I couldn’t use your office for an hour or so?’

‘I suppose - I’m afraid it’s locked,’ said Openshaw in some surprise.

‘You forget there’s a hole in the window.’ The Rev. Luke Pringle gave the very broadest of all broad grins and vanished into the darkness without.

‘A rather odd fellow, that, after all,’ said the Professor, frowning.

He was rather surprised to find Father Brown talking to the waiter who had brought the cocktails, apparently about the waiter’s most private affairs; for there was some mention of a baby who was now out of danger. He commented on the fact with some surprise, wondering how the priest came to know the man; but the former only said, ‘Oh, I dine here every two or three months, and I’ve talked to him now and then.’

The Professor, who himself dined there about five times a week, was conscious that he had never thought of talking to the man; but his thoughts were interrupted by a strident ringing and a summons to the telephone. The voice on the telephone said it was Pringle, it was rather a muffled voice, but it might well be muffled in all those bushes of beard and whisker. Its message was enough to establish identity.

‘Professor,’ said the voice, ‘I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to look for myself. I’m speaking from your office and the book is in front of me. If anything happens to me, this is to say good - bye. No - it’s no good trying to stop me. You wouldn’t be in time anyhow. I’m opening the book now. I … ’

Openshaw thought he heard something like a sort of thrilling or shivering yet almost soundless crash; then he shouted the name of Pringle again and again; but he heard no more. He hung up the receiver, and, restored to a superb academic calm, rather like the calm of despair, went back and quietly took his seat at the dinner - table. Then, as coolly as if he were describing the failure of some small silly trick at a seance, he told the priest every detail of this monstrous mystery.

«Il dottor Hankey,» disse Pringle con gravità, «vuole tenere il libro per un’ora e riflettere sulla questione. Poi chiede che ci rechiamo entrambi da lui, e ci comunicherà la sua decisione. Ha espressamente desiderato, Professore, che voi mi accompagniate nella seconda visita.»

Openshaw continuò a fissare in silenzio; poi disse, d’un tratto: «Chi diavolo è il dottor Hankey?»

«Sembra quasi che vogliate dire che è il diavolo,» disse Pringle sorridendo, «e mi pare che qualcuno l’abbia pensato. Aveva una discreta reputazione nel vostro stesso campo; ma se la guadagnò per lo più in India, studiando la magia locale e via dicendo, quindi forse non è così ben noto qui. È un diavoletto giallognolo e scarno con una gamba zoppa, e un carattere incerto; ma pare essersi messo a esercitare una comune e rispettabile professione da queste parti, e non so nulla di preciso a suo carico… a meno che non sia una colpa essere l’unica persona che possa forse sapere qualcosa di tutta questa folle vicenda.»

Il professor Openshaw si alzò pesantemente e andò al telefono; chiamò Father Brown, mutando l’appuntamento del pranzo in una cena, per tenersi libero per la spedizione alla casa dimora del medico anglo-indiano; dopodiché si sedette di nuovo, accese un sigaro e sprofondò ancora una volta nei suoi insondabili pensieri.

Father Brown si recò al ristorante fissato per la cena, e batté i tacchi per un po’ di tempo in un vestibolo pieno di specchi e di palme in vaso; era stato informato dell’impegno pomeridiano di Openshaw, e, mentre la sera si chiudeva buia e tempestosa intorno ai vetri e alle piante verdi, indovinò che quello aveva prodotto qualcosa di inatteso e di indebitamente prolungato. Si domandò perfino per un istante se il Professore si sarebbe presentato affatto; ma quando il Professore alla fine arrivò, fu chiaro che le sue congetture più generali erano state confermate. Poiché era un Professore dagli occhi assai stravolti e perfino dai capelli assai scomposti quello che alla fine tornò in vettura con il signor Pringle dalla spedizione al Nord di Londra, dove i sobborghi sono ancora orlati di brughiere desolate e di lembi di terreno comune, apparsi più cupi sotto quel tramonto piuttosto temporalesco. Nondimeno, pareva che avessero trovato la casa dimora, che sorgeva un poco in disparte, benché a portata di voce dalle altre case; avevano verificato la targa d’ottone debitamente incisa: «J. I. Hankey, MD, MRCS». Solo che non trovarono J. I. Hankey, MD, MRCS. Trovarono soltanto ciò che un sussurro da incubo li aveva già inconsciamente preparati a trovare: un salottino qualunque con il maledetto volume che giaceva sul tavolo, come se fosse stato appena letto; e oltre, una porta sul retro spalancata di forza e una debole scia di orme che risalivano per un breve tratto un sentiero di giardino così ripido che pareva impossibile che uno zoppo l’avesse potuto risalire con tanta leggerezza. Ma era uno zoppo ad aver corso; poiché in quei pochi passi c’era l’impronta deforme e ineguale di una sorta di stivale ortopedico; poi due impronte di quello stivale soltanto (come se la creatura avesse saltellato) e poi nulla. Non v’era null’altro da apprendere dal dottor J. I. Hankey, MD, MRCS, se non che aveva preso la sua decisione. Aveva letto l’oracolo e ricevuto la condanna.

Quando i due entrarono nell’atrio sotto le palme, Pringle posò d’un tratto il libro su un tavolino, come se gli bruciasse le dita. Il prete lo guardò con curiosità; sul davanti non c’erano che rozze lettere con un distico:

Chi guardò dentro questo libro / il Terrore Volante rapì;

e sotto, come scoprì in seguito, avvertenze simili in greco, latino e francese. Gli altri due si erano voltati con un naturale impulso verso i liquori, dopo il loro sfinimento e sconcerto; e Openshaw aveva chiamato il cameriere, che portò dei cocktail su un vassoio.

«Cenerete con noi, spero,» disse il Professore al missionario; ma il signor Pringle scosse amabilmente il capo.

«Se vorrete perdonarmi,» disse, «me ne vado a fare i conti con questo libro e questa faccenda per conto mio, da qualche parte. Non potrei usare il vostro ufficio per un’ora circa?»

«Suppongo… temo che sia chiuso a chiave,» disse Openshaw con una certa sorpresa.

«Dimenticate che c’è un buco nella finestra.» Il reverendo Luke Pringle fece il più largo di tutti i larghi sorrisi e svanì nel buio là fuori.

«Un tipo piuttosto strano, quello, dopo tutto,» disse il Professore, accigliandosi.

Fu piuttosto sorpreso di trovare Father Brown a chiacchierare con il cameriere che aveva portato i cocktail, a quanto pare degli affari più privati del cameriere; poiché si faceva menzione di un bambino ormai fuori pericolo. Commentò il fatto con una certa sorpresa, chiedendosi come il prete fosse arrivato a conoscere l’uomo; ma questi si limitò a dire: «Oh, ceno qui ogni due o tre mesi, e di tanto in tanto gli ho parlato.»

Il Professore, che lì cenava lui stesso circa cinque volte alla settimana, si rese conto di non aver mai pensato di parlare con l’uomo; ma i suoi pensieri furono interrotti da uno squillo stridulo e da una chiamata al telefono. La voce al telefono disse che era Pringle, era una voce piuttosto smorzata, ma poteva ben essere smorzata in mezzo a tutti quei cespugli di barba e favoriti. Il suo messaggio bastò a stabilirne l’identità.

«Professore,» disse la voce, «non lo reggo più. Vado a guardare io stesso. Parlo dal vostro ufficio e il libro è davanti a me. Se mi succede qualcosa, questo è per dirvi addio. No… è inutile cercare di fermarmi. Non fareste comunque in tempo. Sto aprendo il libro adesso. Io…»

Openshaw credette di udire qualcosa come una sorta di schianto vibrante o tremolante eppure quasi impercettibile; poi gridò il nome di Pringle ancora e ancora; ma non udì altro. Riappese il ricevitore, e, restituito a una superba calma accademica, piuttosto simile alla calma della disperazione, tornò indietro e riprese quietamente il suo posto a tavola. Poi, con la stessa freddezza con cui avrebbe descritto il fallimento di qualche piccolo sciocco trucco a una seduta spiritica, raccontò al prete ogni particolare di questo mostruoso mistero.

‘Five men have now vanished in this impossible way,’ he said. ‘Every one is extraordinary; and yet the one case I simply can’t get over is my clerk, Berridge. It’s just because he was the quietest creature that he’s the queerest case.’

‘Yes,’ replied Father Brown, ‘it was a queer thing for Berridge to do, anyway. He was awfully conscientious. He was also so jolly careful to keep all the office business separate from any fun of his own. Why, hardly anybody knew he was quite a humorist at home and - ’

‘Berridge!’ cried the Professor. ‘What on earth are you talking about? Did you know him?’

‘Oh no,’ said Father Brown carelessly, ‘only as you say I know the waiter. I’ve often had to wait in your office, till you turned up; and of course I passed the time of day with poor Berridge. He was rather a card. I remember he once said he would like to collect valueless things, as collectors did the silly things they thought valuable. You know the old story about the woman who collected valueless things.’

‘I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,’ said Openshaw. ‘But even if my clerk was eccentric (and I never knew a man I should have thought less so), it wouldn’t explain what happened to him; and it certainly wouldn’t explain the others.’

‘What others?’ asked the priest.

The Professor stared at him and spoke distinctly, as if to a child: ‘My dear Father Brown, Five Men have disappeared.’

‘My dear Professor Openshaw, no men have disappeared.’

Father Brown gazed back at his host with equal steadiness and spoke with equal distinctness. Nevertheless, the Professor required the words repeated, and they were repeated as distinctly. ‘I say that no men have disappeared.’

After a moment’s silence, he added, ‘I suppose the hardest thing is to convince anybody that 0+0+0=0. Men believe the oddest things if they are in a series; that is why Macbeth believed the three words of the three witches; though the first was something he knew himself; and the last something he could only bring about himself. But in your case the middle term is the weakest of all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You saw nobody vanish. You did not see the man vanish from the boat. You did not see the man vanish from the tent. All that rests on the word of Mr Pringle, which I will not discuss just now. But you’ll admit this; you would never have taken his word yourself, unless you had seen it confirmed by your clerk’s disappearance; just as Macbeth would never have believed he would be king, if he had not been confirmed in believing he would be Cawdor.’

‘That may be true,’ said the Professor, nodding slowly. ‘But when it was confirmed, I knew it was the truth. You say I saw nothing myself. But I did; I saw my own clerk disappear. Berridge did disappear.’

‘Berridge did not disappear,’ said Father Brown. ‘On the contrary.’

‘What the devil do you mean by “on the contrary”?’

‘I mean,’ said Father Brown, ‘that he never disappeared. He appeared.’

Openshaw stared across at his friend, but the eyes had already altered in his head, as they did when they concentrated on a new presentation of a problem. The priest went on: ‘He appeared in your study, disguised in a bushy red beard and buttoned up in a clumsy cape, and announced himself as the Rev. Luke Pringle. And you had never noticed your own clerk enough to know him again, when he was in so rough - and - ready a disguise.’

‘But surely,’ began the Professor.

‘Could you describe him for the police?’ asked Father Brown. ‘Not you. You probably knew he was clean - shaven and wore tinted glasses; and merely taking off those glasses was a better disguise than putting on anything else. You had never seen his eyes any more than his soul; jolly laughing eyes. He had planted his absurd book and all the properties; then he calmly smashed the window, put on the beard and cape and walked into your study; knowing that you had never looked at him in your life.’

‘But why should he play me such an insane trick?’ demanded Openshaw.

‘Why, because you had never looked at him in your life,’ said Father Brown; and his hand slightly curled and clinched, as if he might have struck the table, if he had been given to gesture. ‘You called him the Calculating Machine, because that was all you ever used him for. You never found out even what a stranger strolling into your office could find out, in five minutes’ chat: that he was a character; that he was full of antics; that he had all sorts of views on you and your theories and your reputation for “spotting” people. Can’t you understand his itching to prove that you couldn’t spot your own clerk? He has nonsense notions of all sorts. About collecting useless things, for instance. Don’t you know the story of the woman who bought the two most useless things: an old doctor’s brass - plate and a wooden leg? With those your ingenious clerk created the character of the remarkable Dr Hankey; as easily as the visionary Captain Wales. Planting them in his own house - ’

‘Do you mean that place we visited beyond Hampstead was Berridge’s own house?’ asked Openshaw.

‘Did you know his house - or even his address?’ retorted the priest. ‘Look here, don’t think I’m speaking disrespectfully of you or your work. You are a great servant of truth and you know I could never be disrespectful to that. You’ve seen through a lot of liars, when you put your mind to it. But don’t only look at liars. Do, just occasionally, look at honest men - like the waiter.’

‘Where is Berridge now?’ asked the Professor, after a long silence.

‘I haven’t the least doubt,’ said Father Brown, ‘that he is back in your office. In fact, he came back into your office at the exact moment when the Rev. Luke Pringle read the awful volume and faded into the void.’

There was another long silence and then Professor Openshaw laughed; with the laugh of a great man who is great enough to look small. Then he said abruptly:

‘I suppose I do deserve it; for not noticing the nearest helpers I have. But you must admit the accumulation of incidents was rather formidable. Did you never feel just a momentary awe of the awful volume?’

‘Oh, that,’ said Father Brown. ‘I opened it as soon as I saw it lying there. It’s all blank pages. You see, I am not superstitious.’

«Cinque uomini sono ormai svaniti in questo modo impossibile,» disse. «Ognuno è straordinario; eppure l’unico caso che proprio non riesco a mandar giù è il mio impiegato, Berridge. Proprio perché era la creatura più tranquilla, è il caso più bizzarro.»

«Sì,» rispose Father Brown, «è stata una cosa bizzarra da parte di Berridge, in ogni caso. Era terribilmente coscienzioso. Ed era anche così maledettamente attento a tenere tutti gli affari dell’ufficio separati da qualsiasi suo svago personale. Ma se quasi nessuno sapeva che a casa era un vero e proprio umorista, e…»

«Berridge!» esclamò il Professore. «Che diamine state dicendo? Lo conoscevate?»

«Oh no,» disse Father Brown con noncuranza, «solo come, per dirla con voi, conosco il cameriere. Ho spesso dovuto aspettare nel vostro ufficio, finché non spuntavate; e naturalmente passavo il tempo a chiacchierare con il povero Berridge. Era un vero tipo. Ricordo che una volta disse che gli sarebbe piaciuto collezionare cose senza valore, come i collezionisti fanno con le cose sciocche che reputano di valore. Conoscete la vecchia storia della donna che collezionava cose senza valore.»

«Non sono sicuro di capire di che state parlando,» disse Openshaw. «Ma anche se il mio impiegato era eccentrico (e non ho mai conosciuto un uomo che avrei giudicato meno tale), ciò non spiegherebbe che cosa gli è successo; e di certo non spiegherebbe gli altri.»

«Quali altri?» chiese il prete.

Il Professore lo fissò e parlò distintamente, come a un bambino: «Mio caro Father Brown, Cinque Uomini sono scomparsi.»

«Mio caro professor Openshaw, nessun uomo è scomparso.»

Father Brown ricambiò lo sguardo dell’ospite con pari fermezza e parlò con pari distinzione. Nondimeno, il Professore esigette che le parole fossero ripetute, ed esse furono ripetute con pari distinzione. «Dico che nessun uomo è scomparso.»

Dopo un attimo di silenzio, aggiunse: «Suppongo che la cosa più difficile sia convincere qualcuno che 0+0+0=0. Gli uomini credono alle cose più strane se sono in serie; ecco perché Macbeth credette alle tre parole delle tre streghe; benché la prima fosse qualcosa che sapeva già da sé; e l’ultima qualcosa che poteva realizzare soltanto da sé. Ma nel vostro caso il termine di mezzo è il più debole di tutti.»

«Che cosa intendete?»

«Voi non avete visto nessuno svanire. Non avete visto l’uomo svanire dal piroscafo. Non avete visto l’uomo svanire dalla tenda. Tutto ciò poggia sulla parola del signor Pringle, che non discuterò per il momento. Ma ammetterete questo; voi non avreste mai creduto alla sua parola, se non l’aveste vista confermata dalla scomparsa del vostro impiegato; proprio come Macbeth non avrebbe mai creduto che sarebbe stato re, se non fosse stato confermato nel credere che sarebbe stato signore di Cawdor.»

«Può darsi che sia vero,» disse il Professore, annuendo lentamente. «Ma quando fu confermato, seppi che era la verità. Voi dite che io stesso non vidi nulla. Ma vidi; vidi il mio stesso impiegato scomparire. Berridge scomparve davvero.»

«Berridge non scomparve,» disse Father Brown. «Al contrario.»

«Che diavolo intendete con “al contrario”?»

«Intendo,» disse Father Brown, «che egli non scomparve affatto. Egli apparve.»

Openshaw fissò l’amico dall’altra parte del tavolo, ma gli occhi gli si erano già alterati in fronte, come facevano quando si concentravano su una nuova presentazione di un problema. Il prete proseguì: «Egli apparve nel vostro studio, travestito con una folta barba rossa e abbottonato in un goffo mantello, e si annunciò come il reverendo Luke Pringle. E voi non avevate mai guardato il vostro stesso impiegato abbastanza da riconoscerlo di nuovo, quand’era in un travestimento così alla buona.»

«Ma di certo,» cominciò il Professore.

«Sapreste descriverlo alla polizia?» chiese Father Brown. «Voi no. Sapevate probabilmente che era ben rasato e portava occhiali colorati; e il solo togliersi quegli occhiali era un travestimento migliore di qualunque altra cosa indossata. Non avevate mai visto i suoi occhi più di quanto ne aveste vista l’anima; allegri occhi ridenti. Aveva piazzato il suo assurdo libro e tutta la scenografia; poi ruppe con calma la finestra, si mise barba e mantello ed entrò nel vostro studio; sapendo che voi non l’avevate mai guardato in vita vostra.»

«Ma perché avrebbe dovuto giocarmi uno scherzo così insensato?» chiese Openshaw.

«Ma perché non l’avevate mai guardato in vita vostra,» disse Father Brown; e la sua mano si curvò e si strinse leggermente, come se avesse potuto battere il pugno sul tavolo, se fosse stato incline a gesticolare. «Lo chiamavate la Macchina Calcolatrice, perché era tutto ciò per cui l’avevate mai usato. Non avevate mai scoperto nemmeno quel che un estraneo, entrato per caso nel vostro ufficio, avrebbe potuto scoprire in cinque minuti di chiacchiere: che era un personaggio; che era pieno di stramberie; che aveva ogni sorta di opinioni su di voi e sulle vostre teorie e sulla vostra reputazione di uomo capace di “smascherare” la gente. Non capite la sua smania di dimostrare che non sapevate smascherare il vostro stesso impiegato? Ha idee balzane di ogni genere. Sul collezionare cose inutili, per esempio. Non conoscete la storia della donna che comprò le due cose più inutili: una vecchia targa d’ottone da medico e una gamba di legno? Con quelle il vostro ingegnoso impiegato creò il personaggio del notevole dottor Hankey; con la stessa facilità con cui creò il fantasioso capitano Wales. Piazzandoli in casa propria…»

«Volete dire che quel posto che abbiamo visitato oltre Hampstead era la casa dimora di Berridge?» chiese Openshaw.

«Conoscevate la sua casa dimora… o anche solo il suo indirizzo?» ribatté il prete. «Sentite, non pensiate che io stia parlando in modo irrispettoso di voi o del vostro lavoro. Voi siete un grande servitore della verità e sapete che non potrei mai mancarle di rispetto. Avete smascherato un mucchio di bugiardi, quando ci mettevate la testa. Ma non guardate soltanto ai bugiardi. Ogni tanto, guardate anche agli uomini onesti… come il cameriere.»

«Dov’è ora Berridge?» chiese il Professore, dopo un lungo silenzio.

«Non ho il minimo dubbio,» disse Father Brown, «che sia tornato nel vostro ufficio. Anzi, vi rientrò nel preciso istante in cui il reverendo Luke Pringle lesse il tremendo volume e si dissolse nel nulla.»

Vi fu un altro lungo silenzio e poi il professor Openshaw rise; con la risata di un grande uomo abbastanza grande da saper sembrare piccolo. Poi disse bruscamente:

«Suppongo di meritarmelo; per non aver notato i più prossimi aiutanti che ho. Ma dovete ammettere che l’accumularsi degli episodi era piuttosto formidabile. Non avete mai provato, sia pure per un istante, un timore reverenziale davanti al tremendo volume?»

«Oh, quello,» disse Father Brown. «L’ho aperto appena l’ho visto lì posato. Sono tutte pagine bianche. Vedete, io non sono superstizioso.»

FOUR: The Green Man

A young man in knickerbockers, with an eager sanguine profile, was playing golf against himself on the links that lay parallel to the sand and sea, which were all growing grey with twilight. He was not carelessly knocking a ball about, but rather practising particular strokes with a sort of microscopic fury; like a neat and tidy whirlwind. He had learned many games quickly, but he had a disposition to learn them a little more quickly than they can be learnt. He was rather prone to be a victim of those remarkable invitations by which a man may learn the Violin in Six Lessons - or acquire a perfect French accent by a Correspondence Course. He lived in the breezy atmosphere of such hopeful advertisement and adventure. He was at present the private secretary of Admiral Sir Michael Craven, who owned the big house behind the park abutting on the links. He was ambitious, and had no intention of continuing indefinitely to be private secretary to anybody. But he was also reasonable; and he knew that the best way of ceasing to be a secretary was to be a good secretary. Consequently he was a very good secretary; dealing with the ever - accumulating arrears of the Admiral’s correspondence with the same swift centripetal concentration with which he addressed the golf - ball. He had to struggle with the correspondence alone and at his own discretion at present; for the Admiral had been with his ship for the last six months, and, though now returning, was not expected for hours, or possibly days.

With an athletic stride, the young man, whose name was Harold Harker, crested the rise of turf that was the rampart of the links and, looking out across the sands to the sea, saw a strange sight. He did not see it very clearly; for the dusk was darkening every minute under stormy clouds; but it seemed to him, by a sort of momentary illusion, like a dream of days long past or a drama played by ghosts, out of another age in history.

The last of the sunset lay in long bars of copper and gold above the last dark strip of sea that seemed rather black than blue. But blacker still against this gleam in the west, there passed in sharp outline, like figures in a shadow pantomime, two men with three - cornered cocked hats and swords; as if they had just landed from one of the wooden ships of Nelson. It was not at all the sort of hallucination that would have come natural to Mr Harker, had he been prone to hallucinations. He was of the type that is at once sanguine and scientific; and would be more likely to fancy the flying - ships of the future than the fighting ships of the past. He therefore very sensibly came to the conclusion that even a futurist can believe his eyes.

His illusion did not last more than a moment. On the second glance, what he saw was unusual but not incredible. The two men who were striding in single file across the sands, one some fifteen yards behind the other, were ordinary modern naval officers; but naval officers wearing that almost extravagant full - dress uniform which naval officers never do wear if they can possibly help it; only on great ceremonial occasions such as the visits of Royalty. In the man walking in front, who seemed more or less unconscious of the man walking behind, Harker recognized at once the high - bridged nose and spike - shaped beard of his own employer the Admiral. The other man following in his tracks he did not know. But he did know something about the circumstances connected with the ceremonial occasion. He knew that when the Admiral’s ship put in at the adjacent port, it was to be formally visited by a Great Personage; which was enough, in that sense, to explain the officers being in full dress. But he did also know the officers; or at any rate the Admiral. And what could have possessed the Admiral to come on shore in that rig - out, when one could swear he would seize five minutes to change into mufti or at least into undress uniform, was more than his secretary could conceive. It seemed somehow to be the very last thing he would do. It was indeed to remain for many weeks one of the chief mysteries of this mysterious business. As it was, the outline of these fantastic court uniforms against the empty scenery, striped with dark sea and sand, had something suggestive of comic opera; and reminded the spectator of Pinafore.

The second figure was much more singular; somewhat singular in appearance, despite his correct lieutenant’s uniform, and still more extraordinary in behaviour. He walked in a strangely irregular and uneasy manner; sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly; as if he could not make up his mind whether to overtake the Admiral or not. The Admiral was rather deaf and certainly heard no footsteps behind him on the yielding sand; but the footsteps behind him, if traced in the detective manner, would have given rise to twenty conjectures from a limp to a dance. The man’s face was swarthy as well as darkened with shadow, and every now and then the eyes in it shifted and shone, as if to accent his agitation. Once he began to run and then abruptly relapsed into a swaggering slowness and carelessness. Then he did something which Mr Harker could never have conceived any normal naval officer in His Britannic Majesty’s Service doing, even in a lunatic asylum. He drew his sword.

It was at this bursting - point of the prodigy that the two passing figures disappeared behind a headland on the shore. The staring secretary had just time to notice the swarthy stranger, with a resumption of carelessness, knock off a head of sea - holly with his glittering blade. He seemed then to have abandoned all idea of catching the other man up. But Mr Harold Harker’s face became very thoughtful indeed; and he stood there ruminating for some time before he gravely took himself inland, towards the road that ran past the gates of the great house and so by a long curve down to the sea.

QUATTRO: L’Uomo Verde

Un giovane in calzoni alla zuava, dal profilo vivace e sanguigno, giocava a golf contro se stesso sul campo che correva parallelo alla sabbia e al mare, i quali andavano entrambi ingrigendosi nel crepuscolo. Non colpiva la pallina alla carlona, ma piuttosto esercitava certi colpi particolari con una sorta di furia microscopica, simile a un turbine ordinato e meticoloso. Aveva imparato molti giochi in fretta, ma aveva la disposizione a impararli un po’ più in fretta di quanto si possano imparare. Era piuttosto incline a cadere vittima di quelle straordinarie proposte per cui un uomo può imparare il Violino in Sei Lezioni, oppure acquisire un perfetto accento francese con un Corso per Corrispondenza. Viveva nell’atmosfera frizzante di simili speranzose réclame e avventure. Al presente era il segretario privato dell’ammiraglio Sir Michael Craven, che possedeva la grande casa dietro il parco confinante col campo da golf. Era ambizioso, e non aveva alcuna intenzione di continuare indefinitamente a fare il segretario privato di chicchessia. Ma era anche ragionevole; e sapeva che il modo migliore di smettere di essere segretario era di essere un buon segretario. Di conseguenza era un ottimo segretario; sbrigava gli arretrati sempre crescenti della corrispondenza dell’ammiraglio con la stessa rapida concentrazione centripeta con cui affrontava la pallina da golf. Per il momento doveva lottare con la corrispondenza da solo e a propria discrezione; poiché l’ammiraglio era stato sulla sua nave negli ultimi sei mesi, e, benché ora sulla via del ritorno, non era atteso prima di parecchie ore, o forse giorni.

Con un passo atletico, il giovane, il cui nome era Harold Harker, superò il rialzo erboso che faceva da bastione al campo e, guardando oltre le sabbie verso il mare, vide uno strano spettacolo. Non lo vide molto chiaramente; poiché la penombra si andava oscurando di minuto in minuto sotto nuvole tempestose; ma gli parve, per una sorta di illusione momentanea, come il sogno di giorni assai lontani o un dramma recitato da fantasmi, venuti da un’altra epoca della storia.

L’ultimo bagliore del tramonto giaceva in lunghe strisce di rame e d’oro sopra l’ultima scura fascia di mare che sembrava più nera che azzurra. Ma ancor più nere contro quel barlume a occidente, passarono in netto profilo, come figure di una pantomima d’ombre, due uomini con tricorni a punta e spade; come se fossero appena sbarcati da una delle navi di legno di Nelson. Non era affatto il genere di allucinazione che sarebbe venuto naturale al signor Harker, se fosse stato incline alle allucinazioni. Era del tipo insieme sanguigno e scientifico; e sarebbe stato più portato a immaginare le navi volanti del futuro che le navi da guerra del passato. Giunse perciò molto sensatamente alla conclusione che anche un futurista può credere ai propri occhi.

La sua illusione non durò più di un istante. A un secondo sguardo, ciò che vide era insolito ma non incredibile. I due uomini che avanzavano in fila indiana attraverso le sabbie, uno una quindicina di iarde dietro l’altro, erano comuni ufficiali di marina moderni; ma ufficiali di marina che indossavano quell’uniforme di gran gala quasi stravagante che gli ufficiali di marina non indossano mai, potendo assolutamente evitarlo; se non nelle grandi occasioni cerimoniali come le visite dei Reali. Nell’uomo che camminava davanti, il quale sembrava più o meno inconsapevole dell’uomo che camminava dietro, Harker riconobbe subito il naso dall’alto profilo e la barba a punta del suo stesso datore di lavoro, l’ammiraglio. L’altro uomo che gli seguiva le tracce non lo conosceva. Ma qualcosa sapeva delle circostanze legate all’occasione cerimoniale. Sapeva che quando la nave dell’ammiraglio avesse fatto scalo nel porto vicino, sarebbe stata formalmente visitata da un Alto Personaggio; il che bastava, in quel senso, a spiegare gli ufficiali in alta uniforme. Ma conosceva anche gli ufficiali; o quantomeno l’ammiraglio. E che cosa potesse aver preso all’ammiraglio per scendere a terra in quell’agghindatura, quando si sarebbe giurato che avrebbe colto cinque minuti per infilarsi l’abito borghese o almeno l’uniforme ordinaria, andava oltre quanto il suo segretario potesse concepire. Sembrava in qualche modo l’ultimissima cosa che egli avrebbe fatto. Doveva in verità rimanere per molte settimane uno dei principali misteri di questa misteriosa faccenda. Comunque fosse, il profilo di quelle fantastiche uniformi di corte contro lo scenario deserto, striato di mare scuro e di sabbia, aveva qualcosa che ricordava l’opera buffa; e rammentava allo spettatore il Pinafore.

La seconda figura era assai più singolare; alquanto singolare nell’aspetto, malgrado la sua corretta uniforme da tenente, e ancor più straordinaria nel comportamento. Camminava in modo stranamente irregolare e inquieto; ora rapido ora lento; come se non riuscisse a decidersi se raggiungere l’ammiraglio o no. L’ammiraglio era piuttosto sordo e di certo non udiva passi dietro di sé sulla sabbia cedevole; ma quei passi dietro di lui, se seguiti alla maniera del detective, avrebbero dato adito a venti congetture, da uno zoppicare a una danza. Il volto dell’uomo era bruno oltre che oscurato dall’ombra, e di quando in quando gli occhi in esso guizzavano e balenavano, quasi ad accentuarne l’agitazione. A un tratto prese a correre e poi ricadde bruscamente in una lentezza e noncuranza spavalde. Poi fece una cosa che il signor Harker non avrebbe mai potuto concepire in un normale ufficiale di marina al Servizio di Sua Maestà Britannica, nemmeno in un manicomio. Sguainò la spada.

Fu a questo punto culminante del prodigio che le due figure di passaggio scomparvero dietro un promontorio sulla riva. Il segretario, con lo sguardo fisso, ebbe appena il tempo di notare lo sconosciuto bruno che, ripreso il fare noncurante, decapitava un ciuffo di eringio marino con la lama scintillante. Sembrò allora aver abbandonato ogni idea di raggiungere l’altro uomo. Ma il volto del signor Harold Harker si fece assai pensoso; ed egli rimase lì a rimuginare per un certo tempo prima di dirigersi gravemente verso l’interno, verso la strada che passava davanti ai cancelli della grande casa e poi, con un lungo arco, scendeva al mare.

It was up this curving road from the coast that the Admiral might be expected to come, considering the direction in which he had been walking, and making the natural assumption that he was bound for his own door. The path along the sands, under the links, turned inland just beyond the headland arid solidifying itself into a road, returned towards Craven House. It was down this road, therefore, that the secretary darted, with characteristic impetuosity, to meet his patron returning home. But the parton was apparently not returning home. What was still more peculiar, the secretary was not returning home either; at least until many hours later; a delay quite long enough to arouse alarm and mystification at Craven House.

Behind the pillars and palms of that rather too palatial country house, indeed, there was expectancy gradually changing to uneasiness. Gryce the butler, a big bilious man abnormally silent below as well as above stairs, showed a certain restlessness as he moved about the main front - hall and occasionally looked out of the side windows of the porch, on the white road that swept towards the sea. The Admiral’s sister Marion, who kept house for him, had her brother’s high nose with a more sniffy expression; she was voluble, rather rambling, not without humour, and capable of sudden emphasis as shrill as a cockatoo. The Admiral’s daughter Olive was dark, dreamy, and as a rule abstractedly silent, perhaps melancholy; so that her aunt generally conducted most of the conversation, and that without reluctance. But the girl also had a gift of sudden laughter that was very engaging.

‘I can’t think why they’re not here already,’ said the elder lady. ‘The postman distinctly told me he’d seen the Admiral coming along the beach; along with that dreadful creature Rook. Why in the world they call him Lieutenant Rook - ’

‘Perhaps,’ suggested the melancholy young lady, with a momentary brightness, ‘perhaps they call him Lieutenant because he is a Lieutenant.’

‘I can’t think why the Admiral keeps him,’ snorted her aunt, as if she were talking of a housemaid. She was very proud of her brother and always called him the Admiral; but her notions of a commission in the Senior Service were inexact.

‘Well, Roger Rook is sulky and unsociable and all that,’ replied Olive, ‘but of course that wouldn’t prevent him being a capable sailor.’

‘Sailor!’ cried her aunt with one of her rather startling cockatoo notes, ‘he isn’t my notion of a sailor. The Lass that Loved a Sailor, as they used to sing when I was young … Just think of it! He’s not gay and free and whats-its-name. He doesn’t sing chanties or dance a hornpipe.’

‘Well,’ observed her niece with gravity. ‘The Admiral doesn’t very often dance a hornpipe.’

‘Oh, you know what I mean - he isn’t bright or breezy or anything,’ replied the old lady. ‘Why, that secretary fellow could do better than that.’

Olive’s rather tragic face was transfigured by one of her good and rejuvenating waves of laughter.

‘I’m sure Mr Harker would dance a hornpipe for you,’ she said, ‘and say he had learnt it in half an hour from the book of instructions. He’s always learning things of that sort.’

She stopped laughing suddenly and looked at her aunt’s rather strained face.

‘I can’t think why Mr Harker doesn’t come,’ she added.

‘I don’t care about Mr Harker,’ replied the aunt, and rose and looked out of the window.

The evening light had a long turned from yellow to grey and was now turning almost to white under the widening moonlight, over the large flat landscape by the coast; unbroken by any features save a clump of sea - twisted trees round a pool and beyond, rather gaunt and dark against the horizon, the shabby fishermen’s tavern on the shore that bore the name of the Green Man. And all that road and landscape was empty of any living thing. Nobody had seen the figure in the cocked hat that had been observed, earlier in the evening, walking by the sea; or the other and stranger figure that had been seen trailing after him. Nobody had even seen the secretary who saw them.

It was after midnight when the secretary at last burst in and aroused the household; and his face, white as a ghost, looked all the paler against the background of the stolid face and figure of a big Inspector of Police. Somehow that red, heavy, indifferent face looked, even more than the white and harassed one, like a mask of doom. The news was broken to the two women with such consideration or concealments as were possible. But the news was that the body of Admiral Craven had been eventually fished out of the foul weeds and scum of the pool under the trees; and that he was drowned and dead.

Anybody acquainted with Mr Harold Harker, secretary, will realize that, whatever his agitation, he was by morning in a mood to be tremendously on the spot. He hustled the Inspector, whom he had met the night before on the road down by the Green Man, into another room for private and practical consultation. He questioned the Inspector rather as the Inspector might have questioned a yokel. But Inspector Burns was a stolid character; and was either too stupid or too clever to resent such trifles. It soon began to look as if he were by no means so stupid as he looked; for he disposed of Harker’s eager questions in a manner that was slow but methodical and rational.

‘Well,’ said Harker (his head full of many manuals with titles like ‘Be a Detective in Ten Days’). ‘Well, it’s the old triangle, I suppose. Accident, Suicide or Murder.’

‘I don’t see how it could be accident,’ answered the policeman. ‘It wasn’t even dark yet and the pool’s fifty yards from the straight road that he knew like his own doorstep. He’d no more have got into that pond than he’d go and carefully lie down in a puddle in the street. As for suicide, it’s rather a responsibility to suggest it, and rather improbable too. The Admiral was a pretty spry and successful man and frightfully rich, nearly a millionaire in fact; though of course that doesn’t prove anything. He seemed to be pretty normal and comfortable in his private life too; he’s the last man I should suspect of drowning himself.’

Era su per questa strada tortuosa che risaliva dalla costa che ci si poteva aspettare l’arrivo dell’ammiraglio, considerando la direzione in cui aveva camminato, e facendo la naturale supposizione che fosse diretto alla propria porta. Il sentiero lungo le sabbie, sotto il campo da golf, piegava verso l’interno appena oltre il promontorio e, solidificandosi in una strada, tornava verso Casa Craven. Fu dunque giù per questa strada che il segretario si lanciò, con la sua caratteristica impetuosità, per andare incontro al suo protettore che tornava a casa. Ma il protettore, a quanto pareva, non stava tornando a casa. Il che era ancora più singolare, neppure il segretario stava tornando a casa; almeno non fino a molte ore dopo; un ritardo abbastanza lungo da destare allarme e sconcerto a Casa Craven.

Dietro le colonne e le palme di quella villa di campagna un po’ troppo sontuosa, in verità, l’attesa andava mutandosi gradualmente in inquietudine. Gryce il maggiordomo, un uomo grosso e bilioso, anormalmente silenzioso di sotto come pure di sopra le scale, mostrava una certa irrequietezza mentre si aggirava per l’atrio principale e ogni tanto guardava dalle finestre laterali del portico, sulla bianca strada che scendeva verso il mare. La sorella dell’ammiraglio, Marion, che gli teneva la casa, aveva l’alto naso del fratello con un’espressione più altezzosa; era loquace, piuttosto sconclusionata, non priva di umorismo, e capace di improvvise impennate stridule come quelle di una cacatua. La figlia dell’ammiraglio, Olive, era scura, sognante e di solito astrattamente silenziosa, forse malinconica; sicché la zia in genere conduceva quasi tutta la conversazione, e ciò senza riluttanza. Ma la ragazza aveva anche il dono di un riso improvviso, molto accattivante.

«Non riesco a capire perché non siano ancora qui», disse la signora anziana. «Il postino mi ha detto chiaro e tondo di aver visto l’ammiraglio venire lungo la spiaggia; insieme a quella terribile creatura di Rook. Non so proprio perché lo chiamino tenente Rook…»

«Forse», suggerì la malinconica giovane, con un lampo di allegria, «forse lo chiamano tenente perché è un tenente.»

«Non capisco perché l’ammiraglio lo tenga con sé», sbuffò la zia, come se parlasse di una cameriera. Era molto fiera del fratello e lo chiamava sempre l’ammiraglio; ma le sue nozioni su un grado nella Marina erano imprecise.

«Ecco, Roger Rook è imbronciato e insocievole e tutto quel che si vuole», replicò Olive, «ma questo, naturalmente, non gli impedirebbe di essere un marinaio capace.»

«Marinaio!» esclamò la zia con una delle sue note da cacatua piuttosto sconcertanti, «non è quella la mia idea di un marinaio. La Fanciulla che Amava un Marinaio, come si cantava quando ero giovane… Ma pensa un po’! Non è allegro, né libero, né come-si-chiama. Non canta canzoni di bordo né balla la hornpipe.»

«Ecco», osservò la nipote con gravità, «neanche l’ammiraglio balla molto spesso la hornpipe.»

«Oh, sai cosa voglio dire… non è brillante né vivace né niente», replicò la vecchia signora. «Diamine, quel tale del segretario saprebbe fare di meglio.»

Il volto piuttosto tragico di Olive fu trasfigurato da una delle sue buone e ringiovanenti ondate di riso.

«Sono sicura che il signor Harker ballerebbe una hornpipe per te», disse, «e direbbe di averla imparata in mezz’ora dal libretto d’istruzioni. Impara sempre cose di questo genere.»

Smise di ridere all’improvviso e guardò il volto piuttosto teso della zia.

«Non capisco perché il signor Harker non venga», aggiunse.

«Del signor Harker non m’importa nulla», replicò la zia, e si alzò e guardò fuori dalla finestra.

La luce della sera era da tempo passata dal giallo al grigio e ora volgeva quasi al bianco sotto il chiaro di luna che si allargava, sopra l’ampio paesaggio piatto lungo la costa; non interrotto da alcun tratto salvo un ciuffo di alberi contorti dal mare intorno a uno stagno e, più oltre, piuttosto scarna e scura contro l’orizzonte, la squallida taverna dei pescatori sulla riva che portava il nome di Uomo Verde. E tutta quella strada e quel paesaggio erano vuoti di qualsiasi cosa vivente. Nessuno aveva visto la figura dal tricorno che era stata scorta, più presto quella sera, camminare lungo il mare; né l’altra e più strana figura che era stata vista trascinarsi dietro di lui. Nessuno aveva neppure visto il segretario che li aveva visti.

Era passata la mezzanotte quando il segretario finalmente irruppe e destò la casa; e il suo volto, bianco come un fantasma, appariva ancora più pallido contro lo sfondo del volto e della figura impassibili di un grosso ispettore di polizia. In qualche modo quel volto rosso, pesante e indifferente sembrava, ancor più di quello bianco e affranto, una maschera del destino. La notizia fu comunicata alle due donne con tutti i riguardi e le reticenze possibili. Ma la notizia era che il corpo dell’ammiraglio Craven era stato infine ripescato dalle erbacce fetide e dalla schiuma dello stagno sotto gli alberi; e che era annegato e morto.

Chiunque conosca il signor Harold Harker, segretario, capirà che, qualunque fosse la sua agitazione, al mattino era in vena di darsi terribilmente da fare. Trascinò l’ispettore, che aveva incontrato la notte prima sulla strada presso l’Uomo Verde, in un’altra stanza per un consulto privato e pratico. Interrogò l’ispettore piuttosto come l’ispettore avrebbe potuto interrogare un contadinotto. Ma l’ispettore Burns era un tipo flemmatico; ed era o troppo stupido o troppo scaltro per prendersela per simili inezie. Presto cominciò a sembrare che non fosse affatto così stupido come pareva; giacché sbrigò le impazienti domande di Harker in un modo che era lento ma metodico e razionale.

«Insomma», disse Harker (la testa piena di molti manuali dai titoli come “Diventa Detective in Dieci Giorni”). «Insomma, è il vecchio triangolo, suppongo. Incidente, suicidio od omicidio.»

«Non vedo come possa essere un incidente», rispose il poliziotto. «Non era neppure ancora buio e lo stagno è a cinquanta iarde dalla strada diritta che conosceva come la soglia di casa sua. Non sarebbe finito in quello stagno più di quanto sarebbe andato a sdraiarsi con cura in una pozzanghera per strada. Quanto al suicidio, è piuttosto una responsabilità suggerirlo, e anche piuttosto improbabile. L’ammiraglio era un uomo assai arzillo e fortunato e spaventosamente ricco, quasi un milionario in effetti; benché naturalmente questo non provi nulla. Sembrava anche piuttosto normale e sereno nella sua vita privata; è l’ultimo uomo che sospetterei di essersi annegato.»

‘So that we come,’ said the secretary, lowering his voice with the thrill, ‘I suppose we come to the third possibility.’

‘We won’t be in too much of a hurry about that,’ said the Inspector to the annoyance of Harker, who was in a hurry about everything. ‘But naturally there are one or two things one would like to know. One would like to know - about his property, for instance. Do you know who’s likely to come in for it? You’re his private secretary; do you know anything about his will?’

‘I’m not so private a secretary as all that,’ answered the young man. ‘His solicitors are Messrs Willis, Hardman and Dyke, over in Suttford High Street; and I believe the will is in their custody.’

‘Well, I’d better get round and see them pretty soon,’ said the Inspector.

‘Let’s get round and see them at once,’ said the impatient secretary.

He took a turn or two restlessly up and down the room and then exploded in a fresh place.

‘What have you done about the body, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘Dr Straker is examining it now at the Police Station. His report ought to be ready in an hour or so.’

‘It can’t be ready too soon,’ said Harker. ‘It would save time if we could meet him at the lawyer’s.’ Then he stopped and his impetuous tone changed abruptly to one of some embarrassment.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I want … we want to consider the young lady, the poor Admiral’s daughter, as much as possible just now. She’s got a notion that may be all nonsense; but I wouldn’t like to disappoint her. There’s some friend of hers she wants to consult, staying in the town at present. Man of the name of Brown; priest or parson of some sort - she’s given me his address. I don’t take much stock in priests or parsons, but

• ’

The Inspector nodded. ‘I don’t take any stock in priests or parsons; but I take a lot of stock in Father Brown,’ he said. ‘I happened to have to do with him in a queer sort of society jewel case. He ought to have been a policeman instead of parson.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said the breathless secretary as he vanished from the room. ‘Let him come to the lawyer’s too.’

Thus it happened that, when they hurried across to the neighbouring town to meet Dr Straker at the solicitor’s office, they found Father Brown already seated there, with his hands folded on his heavy umbrella, chatting pleasantly to the only available member of the firm. Dr Straker also had arrived, but apparently only at that moment, as he was carefully placing his gloves in his top - hat and his top - hat on a side - table. And the mild and beaming expression of the priest’s moonlike face and spectacles, together with the silent chuckles of the jolly old grizzled lawyer, to whom he was talking, were enough to show that the doctor had not yet opened his mouth to bring the news of death.

‘A beautiful morning after all,’ Father Brown was saying. ‘That storm seems to have passed over us. There were some big black clouds, but I notice that not a drop of rain fell.’

‘Not a drop,’ agreed the solicitor toying with a pen; he was the third partner, Mr. Dyke; ‘there’s not a cloud in the sky now. It’s the sort of day for a holiday.’ Then he realized the newcomers and looked up, laying down the pen and rising. ‘Ah, Mr. Harker, how are you? I hear the Admiral is expected home soon.’ Then Harker spoke, and his voice rang hollow in the room.

‘I am sorry to say we are the bearers of bad news. Admiral Craven was drowned before reaching home.’

There was a change in the very air of the still office, though not in the attitudes of the motionless figures; both were staring at the speaker as if a joke had been frozen on their lips. Both repeated the word ‘drowned’ and looked at each other, and then again at their informant. Then there was a small hubbub of questions.

‘When did this happen?’ asked the priest.

‘Where was he found?’ asked the lawyer.

‘He was found,’ said the Inspector, ‘in that pool by the coast, not far from the Green Man, and dragged out all covered with green scum and weeds so as to be almost unrecognizable. But Dr Straker here has - What is the matter. Father Brown? Are you ill?’

‘The Green Man,’ said Father Brown with a shudder. ‘I’m so sorry … I beg your pardon for being upset.’

‘Upset by what?’ asked the staring officer.

‘By his being covered with green scum, I suppose,’ said the priest, with a rather shaky laugh. Then he added rather more firmly, ‘I thought it might have been seaweed.’

By this time everybody was looking at the priest, with a not unnatural suspicion that he was mad; and yet the next crucial surprise was not to come from him. After a dead silence, it was the doctor who spoke.

Dr Straker was a remarkable man, even to look at. He was very tall and angular, formal and professional in his dress; yet retaining a fashion that has hardly been known since Mid - Victorian times. Though comparatively young, he wore his brown beard, very long and spreading over his waistcoat; in contrast with it, his features, which were both harsh and handsome, looked singularly pale. His good looks were also diminished by something in his deep eyes that was not squinting, but like the shadow of a squint. Everybody noticed these things about him, because the moment he spoke, he gave forth an indescribable air of authority. But all he said was:

‘There is one more thing to be said, if you come to details, about Admiral Craven being drowned.’ Then he added reflectively, ‘Admiral Craven was not drowned.’

The Inspector turned with quite a new promptitude and shot a question at him.

‘I have just examined the body,’ said Dr Straker, ‘the cause of death was a stab through the heart with some pointed blade like a stiletto. It was after death, and even some little time after, that the body was hidden in the pool.’

Father Brown was regarding Dr Straker with a very lively eye, such as he seldom turned upon anybody; and when the group in the office began to break up, he managed to attach himself to the medical man for a little further conversation, as they went back down the street. There had not been very much else to detain them except the rather formal question of the will. The impatience of the young secretary had been somewhat tried by the professional etiquette of the old lawyer. But the latter was ultimately induced, rather by the tact of the priest than the authority of the policeman, to refrain from making a mystery where there was no mystery at all. Mr Dyke admitted, with a smile, that the Admiral’s will was a very normal and ordinary document, leaving everything to his only child Olive; and that there really was no particular reason for concealing the fact.

«Sicché arriviamo», disse il segretario, abbassando la voce per il brivido, «suppongo che arriviamo alla terza possibilità.»

«Non avremo troppa fretta su questo», disse l’ispettore, con disappunto di Harker, che aveva fretta di ogni cosa. «Ma naturalmente ci sono un paio di cose che si vorrebbe sapere. Si vorrebbe sapere… del suo patrimonio, per esempio. Sa chi è probabile che ne erediti? Lei è il suo segretario privato; sa qualcosa del suo testamento?»

«Non sono un segretario tanto privato», rispose il giovane. «I suoi legali sono i signori Willis, Hardman e Dyke, laggiù in Suttford High Street; e credo che il testamento sia in loro custodia.»

«Bene, sarà meglio che vada a trovarli al più presto», disse l’ispettore.

«Andiamo a trovarli subito», disse l’impaziente segretario.

Fece un giro o due su e giù per la stanza, irrequieto, e poi esplose su un altro fronte.

«Che cosa avete fatto del corpo, ispettore?» chiese.

«Il dottor Straker lo sta esaminando ora al commissariato. Il suo referto dovrebbe essere pronto tra un’ora o giù di lì.»

«Non sarà mai pronto troppo presto», disse Harker. «Risparmieremmo tempo se potessimo incontrarlo dall’avvocato.» Poi si arrestò e il suo tono impetuoso mutò bruscamente in uno di un certo imbarazzo.

«Senta un po’», disse, «voglio… vogliamo tener conto della giovane signorina, la povera figlia dell’ammiraglio, il più possibile, proprio adesso. Ha un’idea che potrebbe essere tutta una sciocchezza; ma non vorrei deluderla. C’è un suo amico che vuole consultare, che al momento sta in città. Un uomo di nome Brown; prete o pastore di qualche sorta… mi ha dato il suo indirizzo. Io non do molto credito a preti o pastori, ma…»

L’ispettore annuì. «Io non do alcun credito a preti o pastori; ma do molto credito a Padre Brown», disse. «Mi è capitato di aver a che fare con lui in un curioso caso mondano di un gioiello. Avrebbe dovuto fare il poliziotto invece del pastore.»

«Oh, benissimo», disse il segretario trafelato mentre spariva dalla stanza. «Che venga anche lui dall’avvocato.»

Fu così che, quando si affrettarono nella cittadina vicina per incontrare il dottor Straker nello studio del notaio, trovarono Padre Brown già seduto lì, con le mani incrociate sul suo pesante ombrello, mentre chiacchierava piacevolmente con l’unico membro disponibile dello studio. Anche il dottor Straker era arrivato, ma a quanto pareva solo in quel momento, poiché stava riponendo con cura i guanti nel cilindro e il cilindro su un tavolino laterale. E la mite e raggiante espressione del volto lunare del prete e dei suoi occhiali, insieme alle silenziose risatine del gioviale vecchio avvocato brizzolato con cui parlava, bastavano a mostrare che il dottore non aveva ancora aperto bocca per portare la notizia della morte.

«Una bella mattinata, dopotutto», stava dicendo Padre Brown. «Quella tempesta sembra esserci passata sopra. C’erano certe grosse nubi nere, ma noto che non è caduta una goccia di pioggia.»

«Non una goccia», convenne il notaio giocherellando con una penna; era il terzo socio, il signor Dyke; «non c’è una nuvola in cielo, adesso. È il genere di giornata da vacanza.» Poi si accorse dei nuovi arrivati e alzò lo sguardo, posando la penna e alzandosi. «Ah, signor Harker, come sta? Sento dire che l’ammiraglio è atteso presto a casa.» Allora Harker parlò, e la sua voce risuonò cava nella stanza.

«Mi spiace dire che siamo latori di cattive notizie. L’ammiraglio Craven è annegato prima di raggiungere casa.»

Ci fu un mutamento nell’aria stessa dello studio silenzioso, benché non nell’atteggiamento delle figure immobili; entrambe fissavano chi parlava come se una battuta di spirito fosse rimasta gelata sulle loro labbra. Entrambe ripeterono la parola «annegato» e si guardarono l’un l’altro, e poi di nuovo il loro informatore. Poi ci fu un piccolo tumulto di domande.

«Quando è accaduto?» chiese il prete.

«Dove è stato trovato?» chiese l’avvocato.

«È stato trovato», disse l’ispettore, «in quello stagno presso la costa, non lontano dall’Uomo Verde, e tirato fuori tutto coperto di schiuma verde e di erbacce, così da essere quasi irriconoscibile. Ma il dottor Straker qui ha… Che cosa c’è. Padre Brown? Si sente male?»

«L’Uomo Verde», disse Padre Brown con un brivido. «Mi dispiace tanto… Vi chiedo scusa per essermi turbato.»

«Turbato da che cosa?» chiese l’ufficiale, con lo sguardo fisso.

«Dal fatto che fosse coperto di schiuma verde, suppongo», disse il prete, con un riso piuttosto malfermo. Poi aggiunse in tono un po’ più deciso: «Pensavo potesse essere stato alghe.»

Ormai a questo punto tutti guardavano il prete, con un sospetto non innaturale che fosse pazzo; eppure la successiva, cruciale sorpresa non doveva venire da lui. Dopo un silenzio di morte, fu il dottore a parlare.

Il dottor Straker era un uomo notevole, anche solo a vederlo. Era altissimo e spigoloso, formale e professionale nel vestire; eppure conservava una foggia che si è a stento più vista dai tempi metà-vittoriani. Benché relativamente giovane, portava la barba castana molto lunga e allargata sul panciotto; in contrasto con essa, i suoi lineamenti, insieme aspri e belli, apparivano singolarmente pallidi. La sua avvenenza era anche sminuita da qualcosa nei suoi occhi profondi che non era uno strabismo, ma come l’ombra di uno strabismo. Tutti notarono queste cose in lui, poiché nel momento in cui parlava emanava un indescrivibile senso di autorità. Ma tutto ciò che disse fu:

«C’è un’altra cosa da dire, se veniamo ai dettagli, sul fatto che l’ammiraglio Craven sia annegato.» Poi aggiunse pensosamente: «L’ammiraglio Craven non è annegato.»

L’ispettore si voltò con una prontezza del tutto nuova e gli sparò una domanda.

«Ho appena esaminato il corpo», disse il dottor Straker, «la causa della morte è stata una pugnalata al cuore con qualche lama appuntita, come uno stiletto. Fu dopo la morte, e anzi un certo tempo dopo, che il corpo venne nascosto nello stagno.»

Padre Brown osservava il dottor Straker con un occhio assai vivace, quale di rado rivolgeva ad alcuno; e quando il gruppo nello studio cominciò a sciogliersi, riuscì ad accompagnarsi all’uomo di medicina per un po’ di conversazione ulteriore, mentre tornavano giù per la strada. Non c’era stato molto altro a trattenerli, salvo la questione piuttosto formale del testamento. L’impazienza del giovane segretario era stata messa alquanto alla prova dall’etichetta professionale del vecchio avvocato. Ma quest’ultimo fu alla fine indotto, più dal tatto del prete che dall’autorità del poliziotto, ad astenersi dal fare un mistero là dove non c’era alcun mistero. Il signor Dyke ammise, con un sorriso, che il testamento dell’ammiraglio era un documento molto normale e ordinario, che lasciava tutto alla sua unica figlia, Olive; e che non c’era davvero alcuna ragione particolare per nascondere il fatto.

The doctor and the priest walked slowly down the street that struck out of the town in the direction of Craven House. Harker had plunged on ahead of him with all his native eagerness to get somewhere; but the two behind seemed more interested in their discussion than their direction. It was in rather an enigmatic tone that the tall doctor said to the short cleric beside him:

‘Well, Father Brown, what do you think of a thing like this?’

Father Brown looked at. him rather intently for an instant, and then said:

‘Well, I’ve begun to think of one or two things; but my chief difficulty is that I only knew the Admiral slightly; though I’ve seen something of his daughter.’

‘The Admiral,’ said the doctor with a grim immobility of feature, ‘was the sort of man of whom it is said that he had not an enemy in the world.’

‘I suppose you mean,’ answered the priest, ‘that there’s something else that will not be said.’

‘Oh, it’s no affair of mine,’ said Straker hastily but rather harshly. ‘He had his moods, I suppose. He once threatened me with a legal action about an operation; but I think he thought better of it. I can imagine his being rather rough with a subordinate.’

Father Brown’s eyes were fixed on the figure of the secretary striding far ahead; and as he gazed he realized the special cause of his hurry. Some fifty yards farther ahead the Admiral’s daughter was dawdling along the road towards the Admiral’s house. The secretary soon came abreast of her; and for the remainder of the time Father Brown watched the silent drama of two human backs as they diminished into the distance. The secretary was evidently very much excited about something; but if the priest guessed what it was, he kept it to himself. When he came to the corner leading to the doctor’s house, he only said briefly: ‘I don’t know if you have anything more to tell us.’

‘Why should I?’ answered the doctor very abruptly; and striding off, left it uncertain whether he was asking why he should have anything to tell, or why he should tell it.

Father Brown went stumping on alone, in the track of the two young people; but when he came to the entrance and avenues of the Admiral’s park, he was arrested by the action of the girl, who turned suddenly and came straight towards him; her face unusually pale and her eyes bright with some new and as yet nameless emotion.

‘Father Brown,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I must talk to you as soon as possible. You must listen to me, I can’t see any other way out.’

‘Why certainly,’ he replied, as coolly as if a gutter - boy had asked him the time. ‘Where shall we go and talk?’

The girl led him at random to one of the rather tumbledown arbours in the grounds; and they sat down behind a screen of large ragged leaves. She began instantly, as if she must relieve her feelings or faint.

‘Harold Harker,’ she said, ‘has been talking to me about things. Terrible things.’

The priest nodded and the girl went on hastily. ‘About Roger Rook. Do you know about Roger?’

‘I’ve been told,’ he answered, ‘that his fellow - seamen call him The Jolly Roger, because he is never jolly; and looks like the pirate’s skull and crossbones.’

‘He was not always like that,’ said Olive in a low voice. ‘Something very queer must have happened to him. I knew him well when we were children; we used to play over there on the sands. He was harum - scarum and always talking about being a pirate; I dare say he was the sort they say might take to crime through reading shockers; but there was something poetical in his way of being piratical. He really was a Jolly Roger then. I suppose he was the last boy who kept up the old legend of really running away to sea; and at last his family had to agree to his joining the Navy. Well … ’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown patiently.

‘Well,’ she admitted, caught in one of her rare moments of mirth, ‘I suppose poor Roger found it disappointing. Naval officers so seldom carry knives in their teeth or wave bloody cutlasses and black flags. But that doesn’t explain the change in him. He just stiffened; grew dull and dumb, like a dead man walking about. He always avoids me; but that doesn’t matter. I supposed some great grief that’s no business of mine had broken him up. And now - well, if what Harold says is true, the grief is neither more nor less than going mad; or being possessed of a devil.’

‘And what does Harold say?’ asked the priest.

‘It’s so awful I can hardly say it,’ she answered. ‘He swears he saw Roger creeping behind my father that night; hesitating and then drawing his sword … and the doctor says father was stabbed with a steel point … I can’t believe Roger Rook had anything to do with it. His sulks and my father’s temper sometimes led to quarrels; but what are quarrels? I can’t exactly say I’m standing up for an old friend; because he isn’t even friendly. But you can’t help feeling sure of some things, even about an old acquaintance. And yet Harold swears that he - ’

‘Harold seems to swear a great deal,’ said Father Brown.

There was a sudden silence; after which she said in a different tone: ‘Well, he does swear other things too. Harold Harker proposed to me just now.’

‘Am I to congratulate you, or rather him?’ inquired her companion.

‘I told him he must wait. He isn’t good at waiting.’ She was caught again in a ripple of her incongruous sense of the comic: ‘He said I was his ideal and his ambition and so on. He has lived in the States; but somehow I never remember it when he is talking about dollars; only when he is talking about ideals.’

‘And I suppose,’ said Father Brown very softy, ‘that it is because you have to decide about Harold that you want to know the truth about Roger.’

She stiffened and frowned, and then equally abruptly smiled, saying: ‘Oh, you know too much.’

‘I know very little, especially in this affair,’ said the priest gravely. ‘I only know who murdered your father.’ She started up and stood staring down at him stricken white. Father Brown made a wry face as he went on: ‘I made a fool of myself when I first realized it; when they’d just been asking where he was found, and went on talking about green scum and the Green Man.’

Il dottore e il prete camminavano lentamente giù per la strada che usciva dalla città in direzione di Casa Craven. Harker si era slanciato avanti a loro con tutta la sua innata smania di arrivare da qualche parte; ma i due dietro sembravano più interessati alla loro discussione che alla loro direzione. Fu in tono piuttosto enigmatico che l’alto dottore disse al basso ecclesiastico al suo fianco:

«Allora, Padre Brown, che cosa ne pensa di una cosa simile?»

Padre Brown lo guardò piuttosto intensamente per un istante, e poi disse:

«Ecco, ho cominciato a pensare a un paio di cose; ma la mia difficoltà principale è che conoscevo l’ammiraglio solo superficialmente; benché abbia frequentato un poco sua figlia.»

«L’ammiraglio», disse il dottore con una cupa immobilità dei lineamenti, «era il genere d’uomo di cui si dice che non aveva un nemico al mondo.»

«Suppongo intenda dire», rispose il prete, «che c’è qualcos’altro che non verrà detto.»

«Oh, non sono affari miei», disse Straker in fretta ma piuttosto aspramente. «Aveva i suoi umori, suppongo. Una volta mi minacciò di un’azione legale a proposito di un’operazione; ma credo che ci abbia poi ripensato. Posso immaginarlo piuttosto brusco con un subalterno.»

Gli occhi di Padre Brown erano fissi sulla figura del segretario che avanzava a grandi passi molto più avanti; e mentre lo osservava colse la ragione particolare della sua fretta. Una cinquantina di iarde più avanti la figlia dell’ammiraglio bighellonava lungo la strada verso la casa dell’ammiraglio. Il segretario le fu presto accanto; e per il resto del tempo Padre Brown osservò il silenzioso dramma di due schiene umane mentre si rimpicciolivano nella distanza. Il segretario era evidentemente molto eccitato per qualcosa; ma se il prete indovinò cosa fosse, lo tenne per sé. Quando giunse all’angolo che portava alla casa del dottore, disse soltanto brevemente: «Non so se ha qualcos’altro da dirci.»

«Perché dovrei?» rispose il dottore assai bruscamente; e allontanandosi a grandi passi, lasciò incerto se stesse chiedendo perché dovesse avere qualcosa da dire, o perché dovesse dirlo.

Padre Brown proseguì arrancando da solo, sulle tracce dei due giovani; ma quando giunse all’ingresso e ai viali del parco dell’ammiraglio, fu fermato dal gesto della ragazza, che si voltò all’improvviso e venne dritta verso di lui; il volto insolitamente pallido e gli occhi lucidi di una nuova e ancora innominata emozione.

«Padre Brown», disse a bassa voce, «devo parlarle il più presto possibile. Deve ascoltarmi, non vedo altra via d’uscita.»

«Ma certamente», replicò lui, con la stessa freddezza con cui se un monello di strada gli avesse chiesto che ora fosse. «Dove andiamo a parlare?»

La ragazza lo condusse a caso in uno dei pergolati piuttosto cadenti del giardino; e sedettero dietro uno schermo di grandi foglie frastagliate. Ella cominciò all’istante, come se dovesse dare sfogo ai propri sentimenti o svenire.

«Harold Harker», disse, «mi ha parlato di certe cose. Cose terribili.»

Il prete annuì e la ragazza proseguì in fretta. «A proposito di Roger Rook. Sa qualcosa di Roger?»

«Mi hanno detto», rispose lui, «che i suoi compagni di bordo lo chiamano il Jolly Roger, perché non è mai allegro; e somiglia al teschio e alle ossa incrociate dei pirati.»

«Non è sempre stato così», disse Olive a bassa voce. «Qualcosa di molto strano deve essergli accaduto. Lo conoscevo bene quando eravamo bambini; giocavamo laggiù sulla sabbia. Era uno scavezzacollo e parlava sempre di voler fare il pirata; oso dire che era del genere di quelli che, dicono, potrebbero darsi al crimine leggendo romanzacci; ma c’era qualcosa di poetico nel suo modo di essere piratesco. Allora era davvero un Jolly Roger. Suppongo fosse l’ultimo ragazzo a mantenere viva la vecchia leggenda del fuggire davvero per mare; e alla fine la sua famiglia dovette acconsentire a farlo entrare in Marina. Ecco…»

«Sì», disse Padre Brown pazientemente.

«Ebbene», ammise lei, colta in uno dei suoi rari momenti di ilarità, «suppongo che il povero Roger l’abbia trovata deludente. Gli ufficiali di marina così di rado portano coltelli fra i denti o brandiscono sciabole insanguinate e bandiere nere. Ma questo non spiega il mutamento in lui. Semplicemente si irrigidì; divenne spento e muto, come un morto che cammina. Mi evita sempre; ma questo non importa. Ho supposto che qualche grande dolore che non mi riguarda l’avesse spezzato. E ora… ecco, se ciò che dice Harold è vero, il dolore non è né più né meno che l’impazzire; o l’essere posseduto da un demonio.»

«E che cosa dice Harold?» chiese il prete.

«È così spaventoso che riesco a stento a dirlo», rispose lei. «Giura di aver visto Roger strisciare dietro mio padre quella notte; esitare e poi sguainare la spada… e il dottore dice che mio padre fu trafitto con una punta d’acciaio… Non riesco a credere che Roger Rook c’entri qualcosa. I suoi malumori e il carattere di mio padre a volte portavano a litigi; ma cosa sono i litigi? Non posso dire proprio di prendere le difese di un vecchio amico; perché non è neppure amichevole. Ma non si può fare a meno di sentirsi sicuri di certe cose, anche riguardo a una vecchia conoscenza. Eppure Harold giura che lui…»

«Harold sembra giurare parecchio», disse Padre Brown.

Ci fu un improvviso silenzio; dopo il quale ella disse in tono diverso: «Ecco, giura anche altre cose. Harold Harker mi ha appena chiesto di sposarlo.»

«Devo congratularmi con lei, o piuttosto con lui?» domandò il suo compagno.

«Gli ho detto che deve aspettare. Non è bravo ad aspettare.» Fu di nuovo colta da un’increspatura del suo incongruo senso del comico: «Ha detto che ero il suo ideale e la sua ambizione e via dicendo. Ha vissuto negli Stati Uniti; ma chissà perché non me ne ricordo mai quando parla di dollari; solo quando parla di ideali.»

«E suppongo», disse Padre Brown con molta dolcezza, «che sia perché deve decidere riguardo a Harold che vuole sapere la verità su Roger.»

Ella si irrigidì e aggrottò la fronte, e poi con altrettanta bruschezza sorrise, dicendo: «Oh, lei sa troppe cose.»

«So pochissimo, specialmente in questa faccenda», disse il prete gravemente. «So soltanto chi ha assassinato suo padre.» Ella balzò in piedi e rimase a fissarlo dall’alto, bianca come un cencio. Padre Brown fece una smorfia mentre proseguiva: «Ho fatto la figura dello sciocco quando me ne resi conto per la prima volta; quando avevano appena chiesto dove fosse stato trovato, e si continuava a parlare di schiuma verde e dell’Uomo Verde.»

Then he also rose; clutching his clumsy umbrella with a new resolution, he addressed the girl with a new gravity.

‘There is something else that I know, which is the key to all these riddles of yours; but I won’t tell you yet. I suppose it’s bad news; but it’s nothing like so bad as the things you have been fancying.’ He buttoned up his coat and turned towards the gate. ‘I’m going to see this Mr Rook of yours. In a shed by the shore, near where Mr Harker saw him walking. I rather think he lives there.’ And he went bustling off in the direction of the beach.

Olive was an imaginative person; perhaps too imaginative to be safely left to brood over such hints as her friend had thrown out; but he was in rather a hurry to find the best relief for her broodings. The mysterious connection between Father Brown’s first shock of enlightenment and the chance language about the pool and the inn, hag - rode her fancy in a hundred forms of ugly symbolism. The Green Man became a ghost trailing loathsome weeds and walking the countryside under the moon; the sign of the Green Man became a human figure hanging as from a gibbet; and the tarn itself became a tavern, a dark subaqueous tavern for the dead sailors. And yet he had taken the most rapid method to overthrow all such nightmares, with a burst of blinding daylight which seemed more mysterious than the night.

For before the sun had set, something had come back into her life that turned her whole world topsy - turvy once more; something she had hardly known that she desired until it was abruptly granted; something that was, like a dream, old and familiar, and yet remained incomprehensible and incredible. For Roger Rook had come striding across the sands, and even when he was a dot in the distance, she knew he was transfigured; and as he came nearer and nearer, she saw that his dark face was alive with laughter and exultation. He came straight toward her, as if they had never parted, and seized her shoulders saying: ‘Now I can look after you, thank God.’

She hardly knew what she answered; but she heard herself questioning rather wildly why he seemed so changed and so happy.

‘Because I am happy,’ he answered. ‘I have heard the bad news.’

All parties concerned, including some who seemed rather unconcerned, found themselves assembled on the garden - path leading to Craven House, to hear the formality, now truly formal, of the lawyer’s reading of the will; and the probable, and more practical sequel of the lawyer’s advice upon the crisis. Besides the grey - haired solicitor himself, armed with the testamentary document, there was the Inspector armed with more direct authority touching the crime, and Lieutenant Rook in undisguised attendance on the lady; some were rather mystified on seeing the tall figure of the doctor, some smiled a little on seeing the dumpy figure of the priest. Mr Harker, that Flying Mercury, had shot down to the lodge - gates to meet them, led them back on to the lawn, and then dashed ahead of them again to prepare their reception. He said he would be back in a jiffy; and anyone observing his piston - rod of energy could well believe it; but, for the moment, they were left rather stranded on the lawn outside the house.

‘Reminds me of somebody making runs at cricket’, said the Lieutenant.

‘That young man,’ said the lawyer, ‘is rather annoyed that the law cannot move quite so quickly as he does. Fortunately Miss Craven understands our professional difficulties and delays. She has kindly assured me that she still has confidence in my slowness.’

‘I wish,’ said the doctor, suddenly, ‘that I had as much confidence in his quickness.’

‘Why, what do you mean?’ asked Rook, knitting his brows; ‘do you mean that Harker is too quick?’

‘Too quick and too slow,’ said Dr Straker, in his rather cryptic fashion. ‘I know one occasion at least when he was not so very quick. Why was he hanging about half the night by the pond and the Green Man, before the Inspector came down and found the body? Why did he meet the Inspector? Why should he expect to meet the Inspector outside the Green Man?’

‘I don’t understand you,’ said Rook. ‘Do you mean that Harker wasn’t telling the truth?’

Dr Straker was silent. The grizzled lawyer laughed with grim good humour. ‘I have nothing more serious to say against the young man,’ he said, ‘than that he made a prompt and praiseworthy attempt to teach me my own business.’

‘For that matter, he made an attempt to teach me mine,’ said the Inspector, who had just joined the group in front. ‘But that doesn’t matter. If Dr Straker means anything by his hints, they do matter. I must ask you to speak plainly, doctor. It may be my duty to question him at once.’

‘Well, here he comes,’ said Rook, as the alert figure of the secretary appeared once more in the doorway.

At this point Father Brown, who had remained silent and inconspicuous at the tail of the procession, astonished everybody very much; perhaps especially those who knew him. He not only walked rapidly to the front, but turned facing the whole group with an arresting and almost threatening expression, like a sergeant bringing soldiers to the halt.

‘Stop!’ he said almost sternly. ‘I apologize to everybody; but it’s absolutely necessary that I should see Mr Harker first. I’ve got to tell him something I know; and I don’t think anybody else knows; something he’s got to hear. It may save a very tragic misunderstanding with somebody later on.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked old Dyke the lawyer.

‘I mean the bad news,’ said Father Brown.

‘Here, I say,’ began the Inspector indignantly; and then suddenly caught the priest’s eye and remembered strange things he had seen in other days. ‘Well, if it were anyone in the world but you I should say of all the infernal cheek - ’

But Father Brown was already out of hearing, and a moment afterwards was plunged in talk with Harker in the porch. They walked to and fro together for a few paces and then disappeared into the dark interior. It was about twelve minutes afterwards that Father Brown came out alone.

Poi anch’egli si alzò; stringendo il suo goffo ombrello con una nuova risoluzione, si rivolse alla ragazza con una nuova gravità.

«C’è qualcos’altro che so, che è la chiave di tutti questi suoi enigmi; ma non glielo dirò ancora. Suppongo sia una cattiva notizia; ma non è affatto brutta come le cose che è andata immaginando.» Si abbottonò il cappotto e si volse verso il cancello. «Vado a vedere questo signor Rook di cui parla. In un capanno presso la riva, vicino a dove il signor Harker lo vide camminare. Credo proprio che abiti lì.» E se ne andò trafelato in direzione della spiaggia.

Olive era una persona fantasiosa; forse troppo fantasiosa per essere lasciata senza pericolo a rimuginare su accenni come quelli che il suo amico aveva lasciato cadere; ma egli aveva piuttosto premura di trovarle il miglior sollievo dai suoi rimuginii. Il misterioso legame tra la prima scossa di illuminazione di Padre Brown e le parole casuali sullo stagno e sulla locanda incubò la sua fantasia in cento forme di brutta simbologia. L’Uomo Verde diventò un fantasma che si trascinava dietro ripugnanti erbacce e camminava per la campagna sotto la luna; l’insegna dell’Uomo Verde diventò una figura umana appesa come a una forca; e lo stagno stesso diventò una taverna, una scura taverna subacquea per i marinai morti. Eppure egli aveva scelto il metodo più rapido per rovesciare tutti quegli incubi, con un’esplosione di accecante luce diurna che sembrava più misteriosa della notte.

Poiché prima che il sole tramontasse, qualcosa era rientrato nella sua vita che le capovolse di nuovo l’intero mondo; qualcosa che a stento aveva saputo di desiderare finché non le fu concesso all’improvviso; qualcosa che era, come un sogno, antico e familiare, eppure rimaneva incomprensibile e incredibile. Poiché Roger Rook era venuto avanzando a grandi passi attraverso le sabbie, e persino quando era ancora un puntino in lontananza, ella capì che era trasfigurato; e mentre si faceva sempre più vicino, vide che il suo volto scuro era vivo di riso e di esultanza. Venne dritto verso di lei, come se non si fossero mai separati, e la afferrò per le spalle dicendo: «Ora posso prendermi cura di te, grazie a Dio.»

Ella a stento seppe cosa rispose; ma si udì domandargli piuttosto concitatamente perché sembrasse tanto cambiato e tanto felice.

«Perché sono felice», rispose lui. «Ho sentito la cattiva notizia.»

Tutte le parti interessate, comprese alcune che parevano piuttosto disinteressate, si trovarono radunate sul viale del giardino che conduceva a Casa Craven, per ascoltare la formalità, ora davvero formale, della lettura del testamento da parte dell’avvocato; e il probabile, e più pratico, seguito dei consigli dell’avvocato sulla crisi. Oltre al notaio dai capelli grigi in persona, munito del documento testamentario, c’era l’ispettore munito di un’autorità più diretta riguardo al delitto, e il tenente Rook in non dissimulata attenzione verso la signorina; alcuni rimasero piuttosto sconcertati nel vedere l’alta figura del dottore, altri sorrisero un poco nel vedere la tozza figura del prete. Il signor Harker, quel Mercurio Alato, era sfrecciato giù fino ai cancelli della portineria per andare loro incontro, li aveva ricondotti sul prato, e poi si era di nuovo lanciato avanti a loro per preparare il loro ricevimento. Disse che sarebbe tornato in un baleno; e chiunque osservasse quello stantuffo di energia poteva ben crederlo; ma, per il momento, essi rimasero piuttosto abbandonati sul prato fuori dalla casa.

«Mi ricorda qualcuno che fa punti al cricket», disse il tenente.

«Quel giovanotto», disse l’avvocato, «è piuttosto seccato che la legge non possa muoversi così rapidamente come fa lui. Per fortuna la signorina Craven comprende le nostre difficoltà e lentezze professionali. Ha avuto la gentilezza di assicurarmi che ha ancora fiducia nella mia lentezza.»

«Vorrei», disse il dottore, all’improvviso, «avere altrettanta fiducia nella sua rapidità.»

«Come, cosa intende dire?» chiese Rook, aggrottando le sopracciglia; «intende dire che Harker è troppo rapido?»

«Troppo rapido e troppo lento», disse il dottor Straker, alla sua maniera piuttosto criptica. «Conosco almeno un’occasione in cui non fu poi così rapido. Perché si aggirò per metà della notte intorno allo stagno e all’Uomo Verde, prima che l’ispettore scendesse a trovare il corpo? Perché andò a incontrare l’ispettore? Perché mai avrebbe dovuto aspettarsi di incontrare l’ispettore davanti all’Uomo Verde?»

«Non la capisco», disse Rook. «Intende dire che Harker non stava dicendo la verità?»

Il dottor Straker tacque. L’avvocato brizzolato rise con cupo buon umore. «Non ho nulla di più grave da dire contro quel giovanotto», disse, «se non che fece un pronto e lodevole tentativo di insegnarmi il mio mestiere.»

«Se è per questo, tentò di insegnare a me il mio», disse l’ispettore, che si era appena unito al gruppo in prima fila. «Ma questo non importa. Se il dottor Straker intende qualcosa con le sue insinuazioni, quelle sì che importano. Devo pregarla di parlare chiaro, dottore. Potrebbe essere mio dovere interrogarlo all’istante.»

«Ecco, eccolo che arriva», disse Rook, mentre la svelta figura del segretario appariva di nuovo sulla soglia.

A questo punto Padre Brown, che era rimasto silenzioso e inosservato in coda al corteo, stupì moltissimo tutti quanti; forse soprattutto coloro che lo conoscevano. Non solo camminò rapidamente in avanti, ma si voltò fronteggiando l’intero gruppo con un’espressione che imponeva l’arresto ed era quasi minacciosa, come un sergente che ordina l’alt ai soldati.

«Fermi!» disse quasi severamente. «Chiedo scusa a tutti; ma è assolutamente necessario che io veda prima il signor Harker. Devo dirgli una cosa che so; e che non credo nessun altro sappia; qualcosa che egli deve sentire. Potrebbe evitare un tragicissimo malinteso con qualcuno più avanti.»

«Che diamine intende dire?» chiese il vecchio Dyke, l’avvocato.

«Intendo la cattiva notizia», disse Padre Brown.

«Ma senta, dico», cominciò l’ispettore indignato; e poi d’un tratto colse lo sguardo del prete e ricordò strane cose che aveva visto in altri giorni. «Insomma, se fosse chiunque altro al mondo tranne lei, direi che questa è la più infernale delle sfacciataggini…»

Ma Padre Brown era già fuori portata d’udito, e un momento dopo era immerso in conversazione con Harker sotto il portico. Passeggiarono avanti e indietro insieme per qualche passo e poi scomparvero nell’oscuro interno. Fu circa dodici minuti dopo che Padre Brown uscì da solo.

To their surprise he showed no dispostion to re - enter the house, now that the whole company were at last about to enter it. He threw himself down on the rather rickety seat in the leafy arbour, and as the procession disappeared through the doorway, lit a pipe and proceeded to stare vacantly at the long ragged leaves about his head and to listen to the birds. There was no man who had a more hearty and enduring appetite for doing nothing.

He was, apparently, in a cloud of smoke and a dream of abstraction, when the front doors were once more flung open and two or three figures came out helter - skelter, running towards him, the daughter of the house and her young admirer Mr Rook being easily winners in the race. Their faces were alight with astonishment; and the face of Inspector Burns, who advanced more heavily behind them, like an elephant shaking the garden, was inflamed with some indignation as well.

‘What can all this mean?’ cried Olive, as she came panting to a halt. ‘He’s gone!’

‘Bolted!’ said the Lieutenant explosively. ‘Harker’s just managed to pack a suitcase and bolted! Gone clean out of the back door and over the garden - wall to God knows where. What did you say to him?’

‘Don’t be silly!’ said Olive, with a more worried expression. ‘Of course you told him you’d found him out, and now he’s gone. I never could have believed he was wicked like that!’

‘Well!’ gasped the Inspector, bursting into their midst. ‘What have you done now? What have you let me down like this for?’

‘Well,’ repeated Father Brown, ‘what have I done?’

‘You have let a murderer escape,’ cried Burns, with a decision that was like a thunderclap in the quiet garden; ‘you have helped a murderer to escape. Like a fool I let you warn him; and now he is miles away.’

‘I have helped a few murderers in my time, it is true,’ said Father Brown; then he added, in careful distinction, ‘not, you will understand, helped them to commit the murder.’

‘But you knew all the time,’ insisted Olive. ‘You guessed from the first that it must be he. That’s what you meant about being upset by the business of finding the body. That’s what the doctor meant by saying my father might be disliked by a subordinate.’

‘That’s what I complain of,’ said the official indignantly. ‘You knew even then that he was the - ’

‘You knew even then,’ insisted Olive, ‘that the murderer was - ’

Father Brown nodded gravely. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I knew even then that the murderer was old Dyke.’

‘Was who?’ repeated the Inspector and stopped amid, a dead silence; punctuated only by the occasional pipe of birds.

‘I mean Mr Dyke, the solicitor,’ explained Father Brown, like one explaining something elementary to an infant class. ‘That gentleman with grey hair who’s supposed to be going to read the will.’

They all stood like statues staring at him, as he carefully filled his pipe again and struck a match. At last Burns rallied his vocal powers to break the strangling silence with an effort resembling violence.

‘But, in the name of heaven, why?’

‘Ah, why?’ said the priest and rose thoughtfully, puffing at his pipe. ‘As to why he did it … Well, I suppose the time has come to tell you, or those of you who don’t know, the fact that is the key of all this business. It’s a great calamity; and it’s a great crime; but it’s not the murder of Admiral Craven.’

He looked Olive full in the face and said very seriously: ‘I tell you the bad news bluntly and in few words; because I think you are brave enough, and perhaps happy enough, to take it well. You have the chance, and I think the power, to be something like a great woman. You are not a great heiress.’

Amid the silence that followed it was he who resumed his explanation.

‘Most of your father’s money, I am sorry to say, has gone. It went by the financial dexterity of the grey - haired gentleman named Dyke, who is (I grieve to say) a swindler. Admiral Craven was murdered to silence him about the way in which he was swindled. The fact that he was ruined and you were disinherited is the single simple clue, not only to the murder, but to all the other mysteries in this business.’ He took a puff or two and then continued.

‘I told Mr Rook you were disinherited and he rushed back to help you. Mr Rook is a rather remarkable person.’

‘Oh, chuck it,’ said Mr Rook with a hostile air.

‘Mr Rook is a monster,’ said Father Brown with scientific calm. ‘He is an anachronism, an atavism, a brute survival of the Stone Age. If there was one barbarous superstition we all supposed to be utterly extinct and dead in these days, it was that notion about honour and independence. But then I get mixed up with so many dead superstitions. Mr Rook is an extinct animal. He is a plesiosaurus. He did not want to live on his wife or have a wife who could call him a fortune - hunter. Therefore he sulked in a grotesque manner and only came to life again when I brought him the good news that you were ruined. He wanted to work for his wife and not be kept by her. Disgusting, isn’t it? Let us turn to the brighter topic of Mr Harker.

‘I told Mr Harker you were disinherited and he rushed away in a sort of panic. Do not be too hard on Mr Harker. He really had better as well as worse enthusiasms; but he had them all mixed up. There is no harm in having ambitions; but he had ambitions and called them ideals. The old sense of honour taught men to suspect success; to say, “This is a benefit; it may be a bribe.” The new nine - times - accursed nonsense about Making Good teaches men to identify being good with making money. That was all that was the matter with him; in every other way he was a thoroughly good fellow, and there are thousands like him. Gazing at the stars and rising in the world were all Uplift. Marrying a good wife and marring a rich wife were all Making Good. But he was not a cynical scoundrel; or he would simply have come back and jilted or cut you as the case might be. He could not face you; while you were there, half of his broken ideal was left.

Con loro sorpresa non mostrò alcuna disposizione a rientrare nella casa, ora che l’intera comitiva stava finalmente per entrarvi. Si gettò sulla panca piuttosto traballante del frondoso pergolato e, mentre il corteo spariva oltre la soglia, accese la pipa e si mise a fissare vacuamente le lunghe foglie frastagliate sopra il suo capo e ad ascoltare gli uccelli. Non c’era uomo che avesse un appetito più schietto e duraturo per il non far nulla.

Era, a quanto pareva, in una nube di fumo e in un sogno di astrazione, quando le porte d’ingresso furono di nuovo spalancate e due o tre figure uscirono precipitosamente, correndo verso di lui, la figlia della casa e il suo giovane ammiratore, il signor Rook, facilmente vincitori nella corsa. I loro volti erano accesi di stupore; e il volto dell’ispettore Burns, che avanzava più pesantemente dietro di loro, come un elefante che scuote il giardino, era acceso anche di una certa indignazione.

«Che cosa può significare tutto questo?» esclamò Olive, arrivando ansante a fermarsi. «È scomparso!»

«Fuggito!» disse il tenente esplosivamente. «Harker è appena riuscito a fare una valigia ed è fuggito! Uscito di filato dalla porta sul retro e oltre il muro del giardino, verso Dio sa dove. Che cosa gli ha detto?»

«Non essere sciocco!» disse Olive, con un’espressione più preoccupata. «Naturalmente gli ha detto che l’aveva scoperto, e ora è fuggito. Non avrei mai potuto credere che fosse malvagio a tal punto!»

«Ebbene!» ansimò l’ispettore, irrompendo in mezzo a loro. «Che cosa ha fatto adesso? Perché mi ha piantato in asso così?»

«Ebbene», ripeté Padre Brown, «che cosa ho fatto?»

«Ha lasciato scappare un assassino», gridò Burns, con una risolutezza che fu come un tuono nel quieto giardino; «ha aiutato un assassino a scappare. Come uno sciocco l’ho lasciata avvertire; e ora è a miglia di distanza.»

«Ho aiutato qualche assassino ai miei tempi, è vero», disse Padre Brown; poi aggiunse, con attenta distinzione, «non, si badi bene, aiutato a commettere l’omicidio.»

«Ma lei sapeva tutto il tempo», insisté Olive. «Ha indovinato fin dal principio che doveva essere lui. È questo che intendeva quando ha detto di essersi turbato per la faccenda del ritrovamento del corpo. È questo che intendeva il dottore quando ha detto che mio padre poteva essere malvisto da un subalterno.»

«È di questo che mi lamento», disse l’ufficiale indignato. «Lei sapeva già allora che egli era il…»

«Lei sapeva già allora», insisté Olive, «che l’assassino era…»

Padre Brown annuì gravemente. «Sì», disse. «Sapevo già allora che l’assassino era il vecchio Dyke.»

«Era chi?» ripeté l’ispettore e si arrestò in mezzo a un silenzio di morte; punteggiato soltanto dal cinguettio occasionale degli uccelli.

«Intendo il signor Dyke, il notaio», spiegò Padre Brown, come chi spiega qualcosa di elementare a una classe di bambini. «Quel signore dai capelli grigi che si suppone debba leggere il testamento.»

Rimasero tutti come statue a fissarlo, mentre egli si riempiva di nuovo con cura la pipa e accendeva un fiammifero. Alla fine Burns radunò le proprie facoltà vocali per rompere il silenzio soffocante con uno sforzo che somigliava a violenza.

«Ma, in nome del cielo, perché?»

«Ah, perché?» disse il prete e si alzò pensosamente, tirando boccate dalla pipa. «Quanto al perché lo abbia fatto… ecco, suppongo che sia venuto il momento di dirvi, o a quelli di voi che non lo sanno, il fatto che è la chiave di tutta questa faccenda. È una grande sciagura; ed è un grande crimine; ma non è l’omicidio dell’ammiraglio Craven.»

Guardò Olive dritto in faccia e disse molto seriamente: «Vi dico la cattiva notizia senza mezzi termini e in poche parole; perché credo che siate abbastanza coraggiosa, e forse abbastanza felice, per prenderla bene. Avete la possibilità, e credo la forza, di essere qualcosa come una grande donna. Non siete una grande ereditiera.»

In mezzo al silenzio che seguì fu lui a riprendere la sua spiegazione.

«La maggior parte del denaro di vostro padre, mi dispiace dirlo, è svanita. Se n’è andata per la destrezza finanziaria del signore dai capelli grigi di nome Dyke, che è (mi addolora dirlo) un truffatore. L’ammiraglio Craven fu assassinato per farlo tacere riguardo al modo in cui era stato truffato. Il fatto che egli fosse rovinato e voi diseredata è l’unico, semplice indizio, non solo dell’omicidio, ma di tutti gli altri misteri di questa faccenda.» Tirò una o due boccate e poi continuò.

«Ho detto al signor Rook che eravate diseredata ed egli è corso indietro per aiutarvi. Il signor Rook è una persona piuttosto notevole.»

«Oh, la smetta», disse il signor Rook con aria ostile.

«Il signor Rook è un mostro», disse Padre Brown con calma scientifica. «È un anacronismo, un atavismo, un bruto sopravvissuto dell’Età della Pietra. Se c’era una barbara superstizione che tutti supponevamo del tutto estinta e morta ai giorni nostri, era quella nozione riguardo all’onore e all’indipendenza. Ma d’altronde io mi trovo mescolato a tante superstizioni morte. Il signor Rook è un animale estinto. È un plesiosauro. Non voleva vivere alle spalle della moglie, né avere una moglie che potesse dargli del cacciatore di dote. Perciò teneva il broncio in maniera grottesca e tornò in vita soltanto quando gli portai la buona notizia che eravate rovinata. Voleva lavorare per la moglie e non essere mantenuto da lei. Disgustoso, non è vero? Passiamo al più luminoso argomento del signor Harker.

«Ho detto al signor Harker che eravate diseredata ed egli è fuggito via in una sorta di panico. Non siate troppo severa col signor Harker. Aveva davvero entusiasmi migliori oltre che peggiori; ma li aveva tutti mescolati insieme. Non c’è nulla di male nell’avere ambizioni; ma egli aveva ambizioni e le chiamava ideali. L’antico senso dell’onore insegnava agli uomini a diffidare del successo; a dire: “Questo è un beneficio; potrebbe essere una tangente”. La nuova, nove-volte-maledetta sciocchezza del Farsi Strada insegna agli uomini a identificare l’essere buoni col far quattrini. Era tutto qui il suo problema; in ogni altro modo era un giovane pienamente per bene, e ce ne sono a migliaia come lui. Contemplare le stelle e salire nel mondo erano tutt’uno con l’Elevazione. Sposare una buona moglie e sposare una moglie ricca erano tutt’uno col Farsi Strada. Ma non era un cinico furfante; altrimenti sarebbe semplicemente tornato e vi avrebbe piantata o scaricata, secondo il caso. Non poteva affrontarvi; finché eravate lì, metà del suo ideale infranto restava in piedi.

‘I did not tell the Admiral; but somebody did. Word came to him somehow, during the last grand parade on board, that his friend the family lawyer had betrayed him. He was in such a towering passion that he did what he could never have done in his sense; came straight on shore in his cocked hat and gold lace to catch the criminal; he wired to the police station, and that was why the Inspector was wandering round the Green Man. Lieutenant Rook followed him on shore because he suspected some family trouble and had half a hope he might help and put himself right. Hence his hesitating behaviour. As for his drawing his sword when he dropped behind and thought he was alone, well that’s a matter of imagination. He was a romantic person who had dreamed of swords and run away to sea; and found himself in a service where he wasn’t even allowed to wear a sword except about once in three years. He thought he was quite alone on the sands where he played as a boy. If you don’t understand what he did, I can only say, like Stevenson, “you will never be a pirate.” Also you will never be a poet; and you have never been a boy.’

‘I never have,’ answered Olive gravely, ‘and yet I think I understand.’

‘Almost every man,’ continued the priest musing, ‘will play with anything shaped like a sword or dagger, even if it is a paper knife. That is why I thought it so odd when the lawyer didn’t.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Burns, ‘didn’t what?’

‘Why, didn’t you notice,’ answered Brown, ‘at that first meeting in the office, the lawyer played with a pen and not with a paper - knife; though he had a beautiful bright steel paper - knife in the pattern of a stiletto? The pens were dusty and splashed with ink; but the knife had just been cleaned. But he did not play with it. There are limits to the irony of assassins.’

After a silence the Inspector said, like one waking from a dream: ‘Look here … I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels; I don’t know whether you think you’ve got to the end; but I haven’t got to the beginning. Where do you get all this lawyer stuff from? What started you out on that trail?’

Father Brown laughed curtly and without mirth.

‘The murderer made a slip at the start,’ he said, ‘and I can’t think why nobody else noticed it. When you brought the first news of the death to the solicitor’s office, nobody was supposed to know anything there, except that the Admiral was expected home. When you said he was drowned, I asked when it happened and Mr Dyke asked where the corpse was found.’

He paused a moment to knock out his pipe and resumed reflectively: ‘Now when you are simply told of a seaman, returning from the sea, that he had drowned, it is natural to assume that he had been drowned at sea. At any rate, to allow that he may have been drowned at sea. If he had been washed overboard, or gone down with his ship, or had his body “committed to the deep”, there would be no reason to expect his body to be found at all. The moment that man asked where it was found, I was sure he knew were it was found. Because he had put it there. Nobody but the murderer need have thought of anything so unlikely as a seaman being drowned in a landlocked pool a few hundred yards from the sea. That is why I suddenly felt sick and turned green, I dare say; as green as the Green Man. I never can get used to finding myself suddenly sitting beside a murderer. So I had to turn it off by talking in parables; but the parable meant something, after all. I said that the body was covered with green scum, but it might just as well have been seaweed.’

It is fortunate that tragedy can never kill comedy and that the two can run side by side; and that while the only acting partner of the business of Messrs Willis, Hardman and Dyke blew his brains out when the Inspector entered the house to arrest him. Olive and Roger were calling to each other across the sands at evening, as they did when they were children together.

«Io non lo dissi all’ammiraglio; ma qualcuno lo fece. Gli giunse voce in qualche modo, durante l’ultima gran parata a bordo, che il suo amico avvocato di famiglia lo aveva tradito. Era in una collera così furibonda che fece ciò che non avrebbe mai potuto fare se fosse stato in sé; scese dritto a terra col tricorno e i galloni d’oro per acciuffare il criminale; telegrafò al commissariato, ed ecco perché l’ispettore si aggirava intorno all’Uomo Verde. Il tenente Rook lo seguì a terra perché sospettava qualche grana familiare e nutriva una mezza speranza di poter aiutare e di potersi riscattare. Da qui il suo comportamento esitante. Quanto al fatto che sguainò la spada quando rimase indietro e si credette solo, beh, questo è questione d’immaginazione. Era una persona romantica che aveva sognato di spade ed era fuggito per mare; e si era ritrovato in un servizio dove non gli era neppure permesso portare una spada se non forse una volta ogni tre anni. Credeva di essere del tutto solo sulle sabbie dove giocava da ragazzo. Se non capite ciò che fece, posso solo dire, come Stevenson, “non sarete mai un pirata”. E nemmeno sarete mai un poeta; e non siete mai stata un ragazzo.»

«Non lo sono mai stata», rispose Olive gravemente, «eppure credo di capire.»

«Quasi ogni uomo», continuò il prete meditando, «giocherà con qualunque cosa abbia la forma di una spada o di un pugnale, fosse anche un tagliacarte. Ecco perché mi parve così strano che l’avvocato non lo facesse.»

«Che cosa intende dire?» chiese Burns, «non facesse cosa?»

«Ma come, non avete notato», rispose Brown, «a quel primo incontro nello studio, che l’avvocato giocherellava con una penna e non con un tagliacarte; benché avesse un bel tagliacarte d’acciaio lucente foggiato a stiletto? Le penne erano impolverate e schizzate d’inchiostro; ma il coltello era stato appena pulito. Eppure non ci giocherellava. Ci sono limiti all’ironia degli assassini.»

Dopo un silenzio l’ispettore disse, come chi si desta da un sogno: «Senta un po’… non so se cammino sulla testa o sui piedi; non so se lei crede di essere arrivato alla fine; ma io non sono arrivato al principio. Da dove tira fuori tutta questa faccenda dell’avvocato? Cosa l’ha messa su quella pista?»

Padre Brown rise brevemente e senza allegria.

«L’assassino fece una scivolata fin dall’inizio», disse, «e non riesco a capire perché nessun altro l’abbia notata. Quando lei portò la prima notizia della morte allo studio del notaio, nessuno lì era supposto sapere alcunché, se non che l’ammiraglio era atteso a casa. Quando lei disse che era annegato, io chiesi quando fosse accaduto e il signor Dyke chiese dove fosse stato trovato il cadavere.»

Fece una pausa un momento per svuotare la pipa e riprese pensosamente: «Ora, quando vi si dice semplicemente di un marinaio, di ritorno dal mare, che è annegato, è naturale supporre che sia annegato in mare. Perlomeno, ammettere che possa essere annegato in mare. Se fosse stato spazzato via fuoribordo, o fosse colato a picco con la sua nave, o avesse avuto il suo corpo “affidato agli abissi”, non ci sarebbe alcuna ragione di aspettarsi che il suo corpo fosse trovato affatto. Nel momento in cui quell’uomo chiese dove fosse stato trovato, fui certo che sapeva dove era stato trovato. Perché ce l’aveva messo lui. Nessuno tranne l’assassino avrebbe avuto motivo di pensare a qualcosa di tanto improbabile come un marinaio annegato in uno stagno chiuso fra terra a poche centinaia di iarde dal mare. Ecco perché d’un tratto mi sentii male e diventai verde, oso dire; verde come l’Uomo Verde. Non riesco proprio ad abituarmi a trovarmi d’improvviso seduto accanto a un assassino. Così dovetti sviarne il discorso parlando per parabole; ma la parabola significava qualcosa, dopotutto. Dissi che il corpo era coperto di schiuma verde, ma avrebbe potuto altrettanto bene essere alghe.»

È fortuna che la tragedia non possa mai uccidere la commedia e che le due possano correre fianco a fianco; e che, mentre l’unico socio operativo dello studio dei signori Willis, Hardman e Dyke si faceva saltare le cervella quando l’ispettore entrò nella casa per arrestarlo, Olive e Roger si chiamavano l’un l’altra attraverso le sabbie, la sera, come facevano quando erano bambini insieme.

FIVE: The Pursuit of Mr Blue

Along a seaside parade on a sunny afternoon, a person with the depressing name of Muggleton was moving with suitable gloom. There was a horseshoe of worry in his forehead, and the numerous groups and strings of entertainers stretched along the beach below looked up to him in vain for applause. Pierrots turned up their pale moon faces, like the white bellies of dead fish, without improving his spirits; niggers with faces entirely grey with a sort of grimy soot were equally unsuccessful in filling his fancy with brighter things. He was a sad and disappointed man. His other features, besides the bald brow with its furrow, were retiring and almost sunken; and a certain dingy refinement about them made more incongruous the one aggressive ornament of his face. It was an outstanding and bristling military moustache; and it looked suspiciously like a false moustache. It is possible, indeed, that it was a false moustache. It is possible, on the other hand, that even if it was not false it was forced. He might almost have grown it in a hurry, by a mere act of will; so much was it a part of his job rather than his personality.

For the truth is that Mr Muggleton was a private detective in a small way, and the cloud on his brow was due to a big blunder in his professional career; anyhow it was connected with something darker than the mere possession of such a surname. He might almost, in an obscure sort of way, have been proud of his surname; for he came of poor but decent Nonconformist people who claimed some connection with the founder of the Muggletonians; the only man who had hitherto had the courage to appear with that name in human history.

The more legitimate cause of his annoyance (at least as he himself explained it) was that he had just been present at the bloody murder of a world - famous millionaire, and had failed to prevent it, though he had been engaged at a salary of five pounds a week to do so. Thus we may explain the fact that even the languorous singing of the song entitled, ‘Won’t You Be My Loodah Doodah Day?’ failed to fill him with the joy of life.

For that matter, there were others on the beach, who might have had more sympathy with his murderous theme and Muggletonian tradition. Seaside resorts are the chosen pitches, not only of pierrots appealing to the amorous emotions, but also of preachers who often seem to specialize in a correspondingly sombre and sulphurous style of preaching. There was one aged ranter whom he could hardly help noticing, so piercing were the cries, not to say shrieks of religious prophecy that rang above all the banjos and castanets. This was a long, loose, shambling old man, dressed in something like a fisherman’s jersey; but inappropriately equipped with a pair of those very long and drooping whiskers which have never been seen since the disappearance of certain sportive Mid - Victorian dandies. As it was the custom for all mountebanks on the beach to display something, as if they were selling it, the old man displayed a rather rotten - looking fisherman’s net, which he generally spread out invitingly on the sands, as if it were a carpet for queens; but occasionally whirled wildly round his head with a gesture almost as terrific as that of the Roman Retiarius, ready to impale people on a trident. Indeed, he might really have impaled people, if he had had a trident. His words were always pointed towards punishment; his hearers heard nothing except threats to the body or the soul; he was so far in the same mood as Mr. Muggleton, that he might almost have been a mad hangman addressing a crowd of murderers. The boys called him Old Brimstone; but he had other eccentricities besides the purely theological. One of his eccentricities was to climb up into the nest of iron girders under the pier and trail his net in the water, declaring that he got his living by fishing; though it is doubtful whether anybody had ever seen him catching fish. Worldly trippers, however, would sometimes start at a voice in their ear, threatening judgement as from a thundercloud, but really coming from the perch under the iron roof where the old monomaniac sat glaring, his fantastic whiskers hanging like grey seaweed.

The detective, however, could have put up with Old Brimstone much better than with the other parson he was destined to meet. To explain this second and more momentous meeting, it must be pointed out that Muggleton, after his remarkable experience in the matter of the murder, had very properly put all his cards on the table. He told his story to the police and to the only available representative of Braham Bruce, the dead millionaire; that is, to his very dapper secretary, a Mr Anthony Taylor. The Inspector was more sympathetic than the secretary; but the sequel of his sympathy was the last thing Muggleton would normally have associated with police advice. The Inspector, after some reflection, very much surprised Mr Muggleton by advising him to consult an able amateur whom he knew to be staying in the town. Mr Muggleton had read reports and romances about the Great Criminologist, who sits in his library like an intellectual spider, and throws out theoretical filaments of a web as large as the world. He was prepared to be led to the lonely chateau where the expert wore a purple dressing - gown, to the attic where he lived on opium and acrostics, to the vast laboratory or the lonely tower. To his astonishment he was led to the very edge of the crowded beach by the pier to meet a dumpy little clergyman, with a broad hat and a broad grin, who was at that moment hopping about on the sands with a crowd of poor children; and excitedly waving a very little wooden spade.

When the criminologist clergyman, whose name appeared to be Brown, had at last been detached from the children, though not from the spade, he seemed to Muggleton to grow more and more unsatisfactory. He hung about helplessly among the idiotic side - shows of the seashore, talking about random topics and particularly attaching himself to those rows of automatic machines which are set up in such places; solemnly spending penny after penny in order to play vicarious games of golf, football, cricket, conducted by clockwork figures; and finally contenting himself with the miniature exhibition of a race, in which one metal doll appeared merely to run and jump after the other. And yet all the time he was listening very carefully to the story which the defeated detective poured out to him. Only his way of not letting his right hand know what his left hand was doing, with pennies, got very much on the detective’s nerves.

CINQUE: L’inseguimento del signor Blue

Lungo una passeggiata in riva al mare, in un pomeriggio assolato, un uomo dal nome deprimente di Muggleton avanzava con adeguata malinconia. Aveva un ferro di cavallo di preoccupazione stampato sulla fronte, e i numerosi gruppi e le file di artisti disseminati lungo la spiaggia più in basso alzavano invano lo sguardo verso di lui in cerca di applausi. I pierrot rivolgevano in su i loro pallidi volti di luna, simili ai ventri bianchi di pesci morti, senza rallegrargli l’animo; i suonatori dalle facce interamente grigie di una specie di fuliggine unta riuscivano altrettanto poco a riempirgli la fantasia di pensieri più lieti. Era un uomo triste e deluso. Gli altri suoi tratti, oltre alla fronte calva col suo solco, erano schivi e quasi infossati; e una certa opaca raffinatezza che li segnava rendeva ancor più incongruo l’unico ornamento aggressivo del suo volto. Erano dei baffi militari, appariscenti e irti; e avevano un’aria sospettosamente simile a quella di baffi finti. È possibile, in effetti, che fossero baffi finti. È possibile, d’altra parte, che, anche se non erano finti, fossero forzati. Poteva quasi esserseli fatti crescere in fretta, per puro atto di volontà; tanto erano parte del suo mestiere piuttosto che della sua personalità.

Il vero è che il signor Muggleton era un investigatore privato di modesta levatura, e la nube che gli oscurava la fronte era dovuta a un grosso abbaglio nella sua carriera professionale; comunque era legata a qualcosa di più cupo del semplice possesso di un simile cognome. Egli avrebbe quasi potuto, in un modo oscuro, essere fiero del proprio cognome; giacché discendeva da gente povera ma dabbene, di fede non conformista, che vantava una qualche parentela col fondatore dei Muggletoniani, l’unico uomo che avesse fin lì avuto il coraggio di comparire con quel nome nella storia umana.

La causa più legittima del suo cruccio (almeno come egli stesso la spiegava) era che era appena stato presente al sanguinoso assassinio di un milionario di fama mondiale, e non era riuscito a impedirlo, benché fosse stato ingaggiato a uno stipendio di cinque sterline la settimana appunto per impedirlo. Così possiamo spiegare il fatto che perfino il languido canto della canzone intitolata «Won’t You Be My Loodah Doodah Day?» non riuscisse a colmarlo della gioia di vivere.

Del resto, c’erano altri sulla spiaggia che avrebbero potuto avere maggiore simpatia per il suo tema sanguinario e per la tradizione muggletoniana. Le stazioni balneari sono i luoghi prediletti non solo dei pierrot che fanno leva sulle emozioni amorose, ma anche dei predicatori che sembrano spesso specializzarsi in uno stile di predicazione corrispondentemente tetro e sulfureo. Ce n’era uno, un vecchio vociferante che egli non poteva quasi fare a meno di notare, tanto erano acute le grida, per non dire gli strilli di profezia religiosa che risuonavano al di sopra di tutti i banjo e le nacchere. Era un vecchio lungo, sciolto e dinoccolato, vestito con qualcosa di simile a una maglia da pescatore; ma incongruamente fornito di un paio di quelle bassette lunghissime e cadenti che non si vedono più dalla scomparsa di certi giocosi dandy della prima età vittoriana. Poiché era usanza di tutti i saltimbanchi della spiaggia esibire qualcosa, come se lo mettessero in vendita, il vecchio esibiva una rete da pescatore dall’aria piuttosto marcia, che di solito stendeva invitante sulla sabbia, come se fosse un tappeto per regine; ma che a volte roteava selvaggiamente attorno al capo con un gesto quasi tremendo come quello del retiario romano, pronto a infilzare la gente su un tridente. Anzi, avrebbe davvero potuto infilzare la gente, se avesse avuto un tridente. Le sue parole erano sempre rivolte al castigo; i suoi ascoltatori non udivano altro che minacce al corpo o all’anima; era così a lungo nella medesima disposizione d’animo del signor Muggleton, che avrebbe quasi potuto essere un boia impazzito che arringasse una folla di assassini. I ragazzi lo chiamavano il vecchio Zolfanello; ma aveva altre eccentricità oltre a quelle puramente teologiche. Una delle sue eccentricità era di arrampicarsi nel nido di travi di ferro sotto il pontile e trascinare la rete nell’acqua, dichiarando di guadagnarsi da vivere pescando; benché sia dubbio che qualcuno lo avesse mai visto prendere pesci. I gitanti mondani, tuttavia, sobbalzavano talvolta a una voce all’orecchio, che minacciava il giudizio come da una nube tempestosa, ma che in realtà proveniva dal trespolo sotto il tetto di ferro dove il vecchio monomaniaco sedeva fissando torvo, le sue fantastiche bassette pendenti come alghe grigie.

L’investigatore, tuttavia, avrebbe potuto sopportare il vecchio Zolfanello assai meglio dell’altro pastore che era destinato a incontrare. Per spiegare questo secondo e più decisivo incontro, va precisato che Muggleton, dopo la sua notevole esperienza in fatto d’omicidio, aveva molto opportunamente messo tutte le carte in tavola. Aveva raccontato la sua storia alla polizia e all’unico rappresentante disponibile di Braham Bruce, il milionario defunto; vale a dire al suo elegantissimo segretario, un certo signor Anthony Taylor. L’ispettore fu più comprensivo del segretario; ma il seguito della sua comprensione fu l’ultima cosa che Muggleton avrebbe normalmente associato a un consiglio della polizia. L’ispettore, dopo qualche riflessione, sorprese non poco il signor Muggleton consigliandogli di consultare un abile dilettante che sapeva soggiornare in città. Il signor Muggleton aveva letto resoconti e romanzi sul Grande Criminologo, che siede nella sua biblioteca come un ragno intellettuale e getta i filamenti teorici di una tela grande quanto il mondo. Era pronto a farsi condurre al solitario castello dove l’esperto indossava una vestaglia purpurea, alla soffitta dove viveva d’oppio e di acrostici, al vasto laboratorio o alla torre isolata. Con suo stupore fu condotto proprio sul bordo della spiaggia affollata, presso il pontile, per incontrare un tozzo pretino, dal cappello largo e dal largo sorriso, che in quel momento saltellava sulla sabbia in mezzo a una frotta di poveri bambini, agitando eccitato una piccolissima paletta di legno.

Quando il prete criminologo, il cui nome pareva essere Brown, fu finalmente staccato dai bambini, benché non dalla paletta, parve a Muggleton diventare sempre più deludente. Bighellonava impotente tra gli idioti baracconi della riva, discorrendo di argomenti a casaccio e attaccandosi in particolare a quelle file di macchinette automatiche che si installano in luoghi simili; spendendo solennemente moneta dopo moneta per giocare partite vicarie di golf, di calcio, di cricket, condotte da figurine a orologeria; e accontentandosi infine della minuscola esibizione di una corsa, in cui una bambola di metallo pareva semplicemente correre e saltare dietro all’altra. Eppure per tutto il tempo ascoltava con grande attenzione la storia che l’investigatore sconfitto gli riversava addosso. Solo il suo modo di non lasciare che la mano destra sapesse ciò che faceva la sinistra, con le monetine, dava molto sui nervi all’investigatore.

‘Can’t we go and sit down somewhere,’ said Muggleton impatiently. ‘I’ve got a letter you ought to see, if you’re to know anything at all of this business.’

Father Brown turned away with a sigh from the jumping dolls, and went and sat down with his companion on an iron seat on the shore; his companion had already unfolded the letter and handed it silently to him.

It was an abrupt and queer sort of letter. Father Brown thought. He knew that millionaires did not always specialize in manners, especially in dealing with dependants like detectives; but there seemed to be something more in the letter than mere brusquerie.

DEAR MUGGLETON,

I never thought I should come down to wanting help of this sort; but I’m about through with things. It’s been getting more and more intolerable for the last two years. I guess all you need to know about the story is this. There is a dirty rascal who is a cousin of mine, I’m ashamed to say. He’s been a tout, a tramp, a quack doctor, an actor, and all that; even has the brass to act under our name and call himself Bertrand Bruce. I believe he’s either got some potty job at the theatre here, or is looking for one. But you may take it from me that the job isn’t his real job. His real job is running me down and knocking me out for good, if he can. It’s an old story and no business of anybody’s; there was a time when we started neck and neck and ran a race of ambition - and what they call love as well. Was it my fault that he was a rotter and I was a man who succeeds in things? But the dirty devil swears he’ll succeed yet; shoot me and run off with my - never mind. I suppose he’s a sort of madman, but he’ll jolly soon try to be some sort of murderer. I’ll give you £5 a week if you’ll meet me at the lodge at the end of the pier, just after the pier closes tonight - and take on my job. It’s the only safe place to meet - if anything is safe by this time.

J. BRAHAM BRUCE

‘Dear me,’ said Father Brown mildly. ‘Dear me. A rather hurried letter.’

Muggleton nodded; and after a pause began his own story; in an oddly refined voice contrasting with his clumsy appearance. The priest knew well the hobbies of concealed culture hidden in many dingy lower and middle class men; but even he was startled by the excellent choice of words only a shade too pedantic; the man talked like a book.

‘I arrived at the little round - house at the end of the pier before there was any sign of my distinguished client. I opened the door and went inside, feeling that he might prefer me, as well as himself, to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not that it mattered very much; for the pier was too long for anybody to have seen us from the beach or the parade, and, on glancing at my watch, I saw by the time that the pier entrance must have already closed. It was flattering, after a fashion, that he should thus ensure that we should be alone together at the rendezvous, as showing that he did really rely on my assistance or protection. Anyhow, it was his idea that we should meet on the pier after closing time, so I fell in with it readily enough. There were two chairs inside the little round pavilion, or whatever you call it; so I simply took one of them and waited. I did not have to wait long. He was famous for his punctuality, and sure enough, as I looked up at the one little round window opposite me I saw him pass slowly, as if making a preliminary circuit of the place.

‘I had only seen portraits of him, and that was a long time ago; and naturally he was rather older than the portraits, but there was no mistaking the likeness. The profile that passed the window was of the sort called aquiline, after the beak of the eagle; but he rather suggested a grey and venerable eagle; an eagle in repose; an eagle that has long folded its wings. There was no mistaking, however, that look of authority, or silent pride in the habit of command, that has always marked men who, like him, have organized great systems and been obeyed. He was quietly dressed, what I could see of him; especially as compared with the crowd of seaside trippers which had filled so much of my day; but I fancied his overcoat was of that extra elegant sort that is cut to follow the line of the figure, and it had a strip of astrakhan lining showing on the lapels. All this, of course, I took in at a glance, for I had already got to my feet and gone to the door. I put out my hand and received the first shock of that terrible evening. The door was locked. Somebody had locked me in.

‘For a moment I stood stunned, and still staring at the round window, from which, of course, the moving profile had already passed; and then I suddenly saw the explanation. Another profile, pointed like that of a pursuing hound, flashed into the circle of vision, as into a round mirror. The moment I saw it, I knew who it was. It was the Avenger; the murderer or would - be murderer, who had trailed the old millionaire for so long across land and sea, and had now tracked him to this blind - alley of an iron pier that hung between sea and land. And I knew, of course, that it was the murderer who had locked the door.

‘The man I saw first had been tall, but his pursuer was even taller; an effect that was only lessened by his carrying his shoulders hunched very high and his neck and head thrust forward like a true beast of the chase. The effect of the combination gave him rather the look of a gigantic hunchback. But something of the blood relationship that connected this ruffian with his famous kinsman showed in the two profiles as they passed across the circle of glass. The pursuer also had a nose rather like the beak of a bird; though his general air of ragged degradation suggested the vulture rather than the eagle. He was unshaven to the point of being bearded, and the humped look of his shoulders was increased by the coils of a coarse woollen scarf. All these are trivialities, and can give no impression of the ugly energy of that outline, or the sense of avenging doom in that stooping and striding figure. Have you ever seen William Blake’s design, sometimes called with some levity, “The Ghost of a Flea,” but also called, with somewhat greater lucidity, “A Vision of Blood Guilt,” or something of that kind? That is just such a nightmare of a stealthy giant, with high shoulders, carrying a knife and bowl. This man carried neither, but as he passed the window the second time, I saw with my own eyes that he loosened a revolver from the folds of the scarf and held it gripped and poised in his hand. The eyes in his head shifted and shone in the moonlight, and that in a very creepy way; they shot forward and back with lightning leaps; almost as if he could shoot them out like luminous horns, as do certain reptiles.

«Non possiamo andare a sederci da qualche parte?» disse Muggleton con impazienza. «Ho una lettera che dovrebbe vedere, se vuole capire qualcosa di tutta questa faccenda.»

Father Brown si volse con un sospiro dalle bambole saltellanti, andò a sedersi con il suo compagno su una panchina di ferro sulla riva; il compagno aveva già spiegato la lettera e gliela porse in silenzio.

Era una lettera brusca e bizzarra, pensò Father Brown. Sapeva che i milionari non sempre eccellono nelle buone maniere, specie nel trattare con i loro dipendenti come gli investigatori; ma nella lettera pareva esserci qualcosa di più della semplice sbrigatività.

CARO MUGGLETON,

Non avrei mai pensato di ridurmi a chiedere aiuto di questo genere; ma ne ho quasi abbastanza di tutto. È diventato sempre più intollerabile in questi ultimi due anni. Immagino che tutto ciò che le occorre sapere della storia sia questo. C’è una sudicia canaglia che è mio cugino, mi vergogno a dirlo. È stato bagarino, vagabondo, medico ciarlatano, attore e via dicendo; ha perfino la faccia tosta di recitare sotto il nostro nome e farsi chiamare Bertrand Bruce. Credo che abbia o un lavoretto da nulla al teatro qui, o che ne stia cercando uno. Ma può credermi che quel lavoro non è il suo vero lavoro. Il suo vero lavoro è darmi la caccia e mettermi fuori gioco per sempre, se ci riesce. È una vecchia storia e non riguarda nessuno; ci fu un tempo in cui partimmo alla pari e corremmo una gara di ambizione – e di ciò che chiamano amore, per giunta. Fu forse colpa mia se lui era un mascalzone e io un uomo che riesce nelle cose? Ma quel sudicio demonio giura che riuscirà lo stesso; ammazzarmi e scappare con la mia… lasciamo perdere. Suppongo che sia una specie di pazzo, ma presto proverà a essere una specie di assassino. Le darò 5 sterline la settimana se verrà a trovarmi nel casotto all’estremità del pontile, subito dopo la chiusura del pontile stasera – e prenderà su di sé il mio incarico. È l’unico posto sicuro per incontrarsi – se qualcosa è sicuro a questo punto.

J. BRAHAM BRUCE

«Povero me» disse Father Brown mitemente. «Povero me. Una lettera piuttosto affrettata.»

Muggleton annuì; e dopo una pausa cominciò la propria storia, con una voce stranamente raffinata che contrastava col suo aspetto goffo. Il prete conosceva bene le passioni di cultura nascosta che si celano in tanti uomini opachi delle classi inferiori e medie; ma perfino lui fu sorpreso dall’eccellente scelta delle parole, solo di un’ombra troppo pedante; l’uomo parlava come un libro.

«Arrivai alla piccola casetta rotonda all’estremità del pontile prima che vi fosse segno alcuno del mio illustre cliente. Aprii la porta ed entrai, pensando che egli potesse preferire che io, non meno di lui, restassi il più possibile inosservato. Non che importasse molto; perché il pontile era troppo lungo perché qualcuno potesse averci visto dalla spiaggia o dalla passeggiata, e, gettando un’occhiata all’orologio, vidi dall’ora che l’ingresso del pontile doveva essere già chiuso. Era lusinghiero, in un certo senso, che egli assicurasse in tal modo che restassimo soli insieme al convegno, come a mostrare che davvero contava sulla mia assistenza o protezione. Comunque, era stata sua l’idea di incontrarci sul pontile dopo l’orario di chiusura, sicché mi ci adattai abbastanza volentieri. C’erano due sedie dentro il piccolo padiglione rotondo, o come lo si vuol chiamare; così ne presi semplicemente una e attesi. Non dovetti attendere a lungo. Egli era famoso per la sua puntualità, e infatti, mentre alzavo lo sguardo verso l’unico piccolo finestrino rotondo di fronte a me, lo vidi passare lentamente, come se compisse un giro preliminare del luogo.

«Avevo visto soltanto dei suoi ritratti, e ciò molto tempo addietro; e naturalmente era piuttosto più vecchio dei ritratti, ma la somiglianza era inconfondibile. Il profilo che passò davanti al finestrino era di quella specie detta aquilina, dal becco dell’aquila; ma egli suggeriva piuttosto un’aquila grigia e venerabile; un’aquila in riposo; un’aquila che ha da lungo tempo ripiegato le ali. Non c’era da sbagliarsi, tuttavia, su quell’aria d’autorità, o di silenzioso orgoglio nell’abitudine al comando, che ha sempre contrassegnato gli uomini che, come lui, hanno organizzato grandi sistemi e sono stati obbediti. Era vestito sobriamente, per quel poco che potevo vederne; specie a paragone della folla di gitanti balneari che aveva riempito tanta parte della mia giornata; ma mi parve che il suo soprabito fosse di quella foggia particolarmente elegante che è tagliata a seguire la linea della figura, e aveva una striscia di fodera d’astracan che spuntava sui risvolti. Tutto questo, s’intende, lo colsi in un’occhiata, perché mi ero già alzato in piedi ed ero andato alla porta. Tesi la mano e ricevetti il primo colpo di quella terribile sera. La porta era chiusa a chiave. Qualcuno mi aveva chiuso dentro.

«Per un momento rimasi come stordito, ancora fissando il finestrino rotondo, dal quale, naturalmente, il profilo in movimento era già passato; e poi d’un tratto ne vidi la spiegazione. Un altro profilo, aguzzo come quello di un segugio all’inseguimento, guizzò nel cerchio della visione, come in uno specchio rotondo. Nell’istante in cui lo vidi, seppi chi era. Era il Vendicatore; l’assassino o l’aspirante assassino, che aveva braccato il vecchio milionario così a lungo per terra e per mare, e ora lo aveva rintracciato in quel vicolo cieco di pontile di ferro sospeso tra il mare e la terra. E sapevo, naturalmente, che era stato l’assassino a chiudere la porta a chiave.

«L’uomo che avevo visto per primo era alto, ma il suo inseguitore era ancor più alto; effetto attenuato soltanto dal suo portare le spalle curve molto alte e il collo e la testa protesi in avanti come una vera bestia da preda. L’effetto della combinazione gli dava piuttosto l’aspetto di un gigantesco gobbo. Ma qualcosa del legame di sangue che univa quel farabutto al suo famoso congiunto si mostrava nei due profili mentre passavano attraverso il cerchio di vetro. Anche l’inseguitore aveva un naso piuttosto simile al becco di un uccello; benché la sua generale aria di lacera degradazione suggerisse l’avvoltoio anziché l’aquila. Era così poco rasato da esser quasi barbuto, e l’aspetto ingobbito delle sue spalle era accresciuto dalle spire di una rozza sciarpa di lana. Tutte queste sono banalità, e non possono dare l’impressione della brutta energia di quel contorno, o del senso di condanna vendicatrice in quella figura curva e a grandi passi. Ha mai visto il disegno di William Blake, talora chiamato con una certa leggerezza «Il Fantasma di una Pulce», ma anche detto, con qualche maggiore lucidità, «Una Visione di Sangue e Colpa», o qualcosa del genere? È proprio un simile incubo di gigante furtivo, dalle spalle alte, che reca un coltello e una scodella. Costui non recava né l’uno né l’altra, ma mentre passava davanti al finestrino la seconda volta, vidi con i miei occhi che liberava una rivoltella dalle pieghe della sciarpa e la teneva impugnata e pronta nella mano. Gli occhi nella sua testa guizzavano e brillavano al chiaro di luna, e in un modo assai raccapricciante; scattavano avanti e indietro con balzi di fulmine; quasi come se potesse spararli fuori simili a corna luminose, come fanno certi rettili.

‘Three times the pursued and the pursuer passed in succession outside the window, treading their narrow circle, before I fully awoke to the need of some action, however desperate. I shook the door with rattling violence; when next I saw the face of the unconscious victim I beat furiously on the window; then I tried to break the window. But it was a double window of exceptionally thick glass, and so deep was the embrasure that I doubted if I could properly reach the outer window at all. Anyhow, my dignified client took no notice of my noise or signals; and the revolving shadow - pantomime of those two masks of doom continued to turn round and round me, till I felt almost dizzy as well as sick. Then they suddenly ceased to reappear. I waited; and I knew that they would not come again. I knew that the crisis had come.

‘I need not tell you more. You can almost imagine the rest, even as I sat there helpless, trying to imagine it; or trying not to imagine it. It is enough to say that in that awful silence, in which all sounds of footsteps had died away, there were only two other noises besides the rumbling undertones of the sea. The first was the loud noise of a shot and the second the duller noise of a splash.

‘My client had been murdered within a few yards of me, and I could make no sign. I will not trouble you with what I felt about that. But even if I could recover from the murder, I am still confronted with the mystery.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown very gently, ‘which mystery?’

‘The mystery of how the murderer got away,’ answered the other. ‘The instant people were admitted to the pier next morning, I was released from my prison and went racing back to the entrance gates, to inquire who had left the pier since they were opened. Without bothering you with details, I may explain that they were, by a rather unusual arrangement, real full - size iron doors that would keep anybody out (or in) until they were opened. The officials there had seen nobody in the least resembling the assassin returning that way. And he was a rather unmistakable person. Even if he had disguised himself somehow, he could hardly have disguised his extraordinary height or got rid of the family nose. It is extraordinarily unlikely that he tried to swim ashore, for the sea was very rough; and there are certainly no traces of any landing. And, somehow, having seen the face of that fiend even once, let alone about six times, something gives me an overwhelming conviction that he did not simply drown himself in the hour of triumph.’

‘I quite understand what you mean by that,’ replied Father Brown. ‘Besides, it would be very inconsistent with the tone of his original threatening letter, in which he promised himself all sorts of benefits after the crime … there’s another point it might be well to verify. What about the structure of the pier underneath? Piers are very often made with a whole network of iron supports, which a man might climb through as a monkey climbs through a forest.’

‘Yes, I thought of that,’ replied the private investigator; ‘but unfortunately this pier is oddly constructed in more ways than one. It’s quite unusually long, and there are iron columns with all that tangle of iron girders; only they’re very far apart and I can’t see any way a man could climb from one to the other.’

‘I only mentioned it,’ said Father Brown thoughtfully, ‘because that queer fish with the long whiskers, the old man who preaches on the sand, often climbs up on to the nearest girder. I believe he sits there fishing when the tide comes up. And he’s a very queer fish to go fishing.’

‘Why, what do you mean?’

‘Well,’ said Father Brown very slowly, twiddling with a button and gazing abstractedly out to the great green waters glittering in the last evening light after the sunset. ‘Well … I tried to talk to him in a friendly sort of way -friendly and not too funny, if you understand, about his combining the ancient trades of fishing and preaching; I think I made the obvious reference; the text that refers to fishing for living souls. And he said quite queerly and harshly, as he jumped back on to his iron perch, “Well, at least I fish for dead bodies.”’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed the detective, staring at him.

‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘It seemed to me an odd remark to make in a chatty way, to a stranger playing with children on the sands.’

After another staring silence his companion eventually ejaculated: ‘You don’t mean you think he had anything to do with the death.’

‘I think,’ answered Father Brown, ‘that he might throw some light on it.’

‘Well, it’s beyond me now,’ said the detective. ‘It’s beyond me to believe that anybody can throw any light on it. It’s like a welter of wild waters in the pitch dark; the sort of waters that he … that he fell into. It’s simply stark staring unreason; a big man vanishing like a bubble; nobody could possibly … Look here!’ He stopped suddenly, staring at the priest, who had not moved, but was still twiddling with the button and staring at the breakers. ‘What do you mean? What are you looking like that for? You don’t mean to say that you … that you can make any sense of it?’

‘It would be much better if it remained nonsense,’ said Father Brown in a low voice. ‘Well, if you ask me right out - yes, I think I can make some sense of it.’

There was a long silence, and then the inquiry agent said with a rather singular abruptness: ‘Oh, here comes the old man’s secretary from the hotel. I must be off. I think I’ll go and talk to that mad fisherman of yours.’

‘Post hoc propter hoc?’ asked the priest with a smile.

‘Well,’ said the other, with jerky candour, ‘the secretary don’t like me and I don’t think I like him. He’s been poking around with a lot of questions that didn’t seem to me to get us any further, except towards a quarrel. Perhaps he’s jealous because the old man called in somebody else, and wasn’t content with his elegant secretary’s advice. See you later.’

«Tre volte l’inseguito e l’inseguitore passarono di seguito fuori dal finestrino, calpestando il loro angusto cerchio, prima che mi destassi pienamente al bisogno di qualche azione, per quanto disperata. Scossi la porta con rabbiosa violenza; quando vidi di nuovo il volto della vittima ignara, battei furiosamente sul finestrino; poi tentai di rompere il finestrino. Ma era un doppio vetro di cristallo eccezionalmente spesso, e tanto profondo era lo strombo che dubitavo di poter raggiungere davvero il finestrino esterno. Comunque, il mio dignitoso cliente non fece caso al mio frastuono o ai miei segnali; e la rotante pantomima d’ombra di quelle due maschere di fato continuò a girarmi e rigirarmi attorno, finché mi sentii quasi stordito oltre che nauseato. Poi d’un tratto cessarono di riapparire. Attesi; e sapevo che non sarebbero tornati più. Sapevo che la crisi era giunta.

«Non ho bisogno di dirle altro. Può quasi immaginare il resto, come lo immaginavo io mentre sedevo là impotente, cercando di immaginarlo; o cercando di non immaginarlo. Basti dire che in quel silenzio spaventoso, in cui tutti i rumori di passi si erano spenti, non vi furono che due altri rumori oltre al brontolio sordo del mare. Il primo fu il forte fragore di uno sparo e il secondo il rumore più cupo di un tonfo.

«Il mio cliente era stato assassinato a pochi metri da me, e io non potevo dare alcun segno. Non la annoierò con ciò che provai al riguardo. Ma anche se potessi riprendermi dall’assassinio, mi trovo ancora di fronte al mistero.»

«Sì» disse Father Brown con grande dolcezza, «quale mistero?»

«Il mistero di come l’assassino sia fuggito» rispose l’altro. «Nell’istante in cui la mattina dopo fu consentito alla gente di accedere al pontile, fui liberato dalla mia prigione e corsi indietro ai cancelli d’ingresso, per informarmi su chi avesse lasciato il pontile da quando era stato aperto. Senza tediarla coi dettagli, posso spiegarle che erano, per una disposizione piuttosto inconsueta, vere porte di ferro a grandezza naturale che tenevano fuori (o dentro) chiunque finché non venivano aperte. Gli inservienti là non avevano visto ritornare per quella via nessuno che rassomigliasse minimamente all’assassino. Ed era una persona piuttosto inconfondibile. Anche se si fosse in qualche modo travestito, difficilmente avrebbe potuto travestire la sua straordinaria statura o sbarazzarsi del naso di famiglia. È straordinariamente improbabile che tentasse di raggiungere la riva a nuoto, perché il mare era molto agitato; e non ci sono di certo tracce di alcuno sbarco. E, in qualche modo, avendo visto il volto di quel demonio anche una sola volta, per non dire circa sei volte, qualcosa mi dà la travolgente convinzione che egli non si sia semplicemente annegato nell’ora del trionfo.»

«Capisco benissimo cosa intende con questo» rispose Father Brown. «Del resto, sarebbe assai incoerente col tono della sua lettera minatoria iniziale, in cui si riprometteva ogni sorta di vantaggi dopo il delitto… c’è un altro punto che sarebbe bene verificare. Che dire della struttura del pontile al di sotto? I pontili sono spessissimo fatti con tutta una rete di sostegni di ferro, attraverso i quali un uomo potrebbe arrampicarsi come una scimmia si arrampica attraverso una foresta.»

«Sì, ci ho pensato» rispose l’investigatore privato; «ma purtroppo questo pontile è stranamente costruito per più di un verso. È di lunghezza davvero insolita, e ci sono colonne di ferro con tutto quel groviglio di travi; solo che sono molto distanti tra loro e non riesco a vedere in che modo un uomo potrebbe arrampicarsi dall’una all’altra.»

«L’ho menzionato soltanto» disse Father Brown pensieroso, «perché quello strano tipo dalle lunghe bassette, il vecchio che predica sulla sabbia, si arrampica spesso sulla trave più vicina. Credo che sieda là a pescare quando la marea sale. Ed è uno strano pesce, per andare a pescare.»

«Come, cosa intende?»

«Ebbene» disse Father Brown molto lentamente, giocherellando con un bottone e fissando distratto le grandi acque verdi che scintillavano nell’ultima luce della sera dopo il tramonto. «Ebbene… cercai di parlargli in modo amichevole – amichevole e non troppo scherzoso, se mi capisce, riguardo al suo combinare gli antichi mestieri del pescare e del predicare; credo di aver fatto l’ovvia allusione: il passo che parla di pescare anime viventi. Ed egli disse in modo assai bizzarro e aspro, mentre risaltava sul suo trespolo di ferro: “Ebbene, io almeno pesco corpi morti”.»

«Buon Dio!» esclamò l’investigatore, fissandolo.

«Sì» disse il prete. «Mi parve un’osservazione strana da fare in tono di chiacchiera, a uno sconosciuto che gioca coi bambini sulla sabbia.»

Dopo un altro silenzio carico di sguardi il suo compagno alla fine sbottò: «Non vorrà dire che pensa che egli abbia avuto qualcosa a che fare con la morte.»

«Penso» rispose Father Brown, «che egli potrebbe gettare un po’ di luce sulla faccenda.»

«Ebbene, per me è incomprensibile ormai» disse l’investigatore. «Per me è incomprensibile che qualcuno possa gettar luce sulla faccenda. È come un tumulto di acque selvagge nel buio pesto; il genere di acque in cui egli… in cui egli cadde. È pura, sfrenata assurdità; un uomo grande che svanisce come una bolla; nessuno potrebbe mai… Senta un po’!» Si fermò all’improvviso, fissando il prete, che non si era mosso, ma continuava a giocherellare col bottone e a fissare i frangenti. «Cosa intende? Perché guarda in quel modo? Non vorrà dirmi che lei… che lei riesce a cavarne un senso?»

«Sarebbe assai meglio se restasse un’assurdità» disse Father Brown a bassa voce. «Ebbene, se me lo chiede francamente – sì, credo di riuscire a cavarne un senso.»

Ci fu un lungo silenzio, e poi l’agente investigativo disse con una bruschezza piuttosto singolare: «Oh, ecco che arriva il segretario del vecchio, dall’albergo. Devo andare. Credo che andrò a parlare con quel suo pescatore matto.»

«Post hoc propter hoc?» chiese il prete con un sorriso.

«Ebbene» disse l’altro, con scatti di franchezza, «il segretario non mi ha in simpatia e non credo che io abbia in simpatia lui. È andato ficcando il naso in giro con un mucchio di domande che non mi parevano portarci da nessuna parte, se non verso una lite. Forse è geloso perché il vecchio ha chiamato qualcun altro e non si è accontentato del consiglio del suo elegante segretario. Ci vediamo dopo.»

And he turned away, ploughing through the sand to the place where the eccentric preacher had already mounted his marine nest; and looked in the green gloaming rather like some huge polyp or stinging jelly - fish trailing his poisonous filaments in the phosphorescent sea.

Meanwhile the priest was serenely watching the serene approach of the secretary; conspicuous even from afar, in that popular crowd, by the clerical neatness and sobriety of his top - hat and tail - coat. Without feeling disposed to take part in any feuds between the secretary and the inquiry agent. Father Brown had a faint feeling of irrational sympathy with the prejudices of the latter. Mr Anthony Taylor, the secretary, was an extremely presentable young man, in countenance, as well as costume; and the countenance was firm and intellectual as well as merely good - looking. He was pale, with dark hair coming down on the sides of his head, as if pointing towards possible whiskers; he kept his lips compressed more tightly than most people. The only thing that Father Brown’s fancy could tell itself in justification sounded queerer than it really looked. He had a notion that the man talked with his nostrils. Anyhow, the strong compression of his mouth brought out something abnormally sensitive and flexible in these movements at the sides of his nose, so that he seemed to be communicating and conducting life by snuffling and smelling, with his head up, as does a dog. It somehow fitted in with the other features that, when he did speak, it was with a sudden rattling rapidity like a gatling - gun, which sounded almost ugly from so smooth and polished a figure.

For once he opened the conversation, by saying: ‘No bodies washed ashore, I imagine.’

‘None have been announced, certainly,’ said Father Brown.

‘No gigantic body of the murderer with the woollen scarf,’ said Mr Taylor.

‘No,’ said Father Brown.

Mr Taylor’s mouth did not move any more for the moment; but his nostrils spoke for him with such quick and quivering scorn, that they might almost have been called talkative.

When he did speak again, after some polite commonplaces from the priest, it was to say curtly: ‘Here comes the Inspector; I suppose they’ve been scouring England for the scarf.’

Inspector Grinstead, a brown - faced man with a grey pointed beard, addressed Father Brown rather more respectfully than the secretary had done.

‘I thought you would like to know, sir,’ he said, ‘that there is absolutely no trace of the man described as having escaped from the pier.’

‘Or rather not described as having escaped from the pier,’ said Taylor. ‘The pier officials, the only people who could have described him, have never seen anybody to describe.’

‘Well,’ said the Inspector, ‘we’ve telephoned all the stations and watched all the roads, and it will be almost impossible for him to escape from England. It really seems to me as if he couldn’t have got out that way. He doesn’t seem to be anywhere.’

‘He never was anywhere,’ said the secretary, with an abrupt grating voice, that sounded like a gun going off on that lonely shore.

The Inspector looked blank; but a light dawned gradually on the face of the priest, who said at last with almost ostentatious unconcern:

‘Do you mean that the man was a myth? Or possibly a lie?’

‘Ah,’ said the secretary, inhaling through his haughty nostrils, ‘you’ve thought of that at last.’

‘I thought of that at first,’ said Father Brown. ‘It’s the first thing anybody would think of, isn’t it, hearing an unsupported story from a stranger about a strange murderer on a lonely pier. In plain words, you mean that little Muggleton never heard anybody murdering the millionaire. Possibly you mean that little Muggleton murdered him himself.’

‘Well,’ said the secretary, ‘Muggleton looks a dingy down - and - out sort of cove to me. There’s no story but his about what happened on the pier, and his story consists of a giant who vanished; quite a fairy - tale. It isn’t a very creditable tale, even as he tells it. By his own account, he bungled his case and let his patron be killed a few yards away. He’s a pretty rotten fool and failure, on his own confession.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown. ‘I’m rather fond of people who are fools and failures on their own confession.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ snapped the other.

‘Perhaps,’ said Father Brown, wistfully, ‘it’s because so many people are fools and failures without any confession.’

Then, after a pause, he went on: ‘But even if he is a fool and a failure, that doesn’t prove he is a liar and a murderer. And you’ve forgotten that there is one piece of external evidence that does really support history. I mean the letter from the millionaire, telling the whole tale of his cousin and his vendetta. Unless you can prove that the document itself is actually a forgery, you have to admit there was some probability of Bruce being pursued by somebody who had a real motive. Or rather, I should say, the one actually admitted and recorded motive.’

‘I’m not quite sure that I understand you,’ said the Inspector, ‘about the motive.’

‘My dear fellow,’ said Father Brown, for the first time stung by impatience into familiarity, ‘everybody’s got a motive in a way. Considering the way that Bruce made his money, considering the way that most millionaires make their money, almost anybody in the world might have done such a perfectly natural thing as throw him into the sea. In many, one might almost fancy, it would be almost automatic. To almost all it must have occurred at some time or other. Mr Taylor might have done it.’

‘What’s that?’ snapped Mr Taylor, and his nostrils swelled visibly.

‘I might have done it,’ went on Father Brown, ‘nisi me constringeret ecclesiae auctoritas. Anybody, but for the one true morality, might be tempted to accept so obvious, so simple a social solution. I might have done it; you might have done it; the Mayor or the muffin - man might have done it. The only person on this earth I can think of, who probably would not have done it, is the private inquiry agent whom Bruce had just engaged at five pounds a week, and who hadn’t yet had any of his money.’

E si voltò, arrancando nella sabbia verso il luogo dove l’eccentrico predicatore aveva già preso posto nel suo nido marino; e appariva nel verde crepuscolo piuttosto come un enorme polipo o una medusa urticante che trascinasse i suoi velenosi filamenti nel mare fosforescente.

Intanto il prete osservava serenamente il sereno avvicinarsi del segretario; cospicuo anche da lontano, in quella folla popolare, per la clericale precisione e sobrietà del suo cilindro e della sua marsina. Senza sentirsi disposto a prender parte ad alcuna faida tra il segretario e l’agente investigativo, Father Brown provava un debole sentimento di irrazionale simpatia per i pregiudizi di quest’ultimo. Il signor Anthony Taylor, il segretario, era un giovane di aspetto estremamente presentabile, nel volto non meno che nell’abito; e il volto era fermo e intellettuale oltre che semplicemente di bell’aspetto. Era pallido, con capelli scuri che gli scendevano ai lati del capo, come a indicare possibili basette; teneva le labbra serrate più strettamente della maggior parte della gente. L’unica cosa che la fantasia di Padre Brown potesse dire a propria giustificazione suonava più strana di quanto in realtà apparisse. Aveva l’impressione che quell’uomo parlasse con le narici. Comunque, la forte compressione della bocca faceva risaltare qualcosa di anormalmente sensibile e flessibile in quei movimenti ai lati del naso, cosicché sembrava comunicare e condurre la vita fiutando e annusando, a testa alta, come fa un cane. In qualche modo si accordava con gli altri tratti il fatto che, quando parlava davvero, lo facesse con una improvvisa rapidità crepitante come una mitragliatrice, che suonava quasi brutta in una figura tanto liscia e levigata.

Per una volta fu lui ad aprire la conversazione, dicendo: «Nessun corpo trascinato a riva, immagino.»

«Nessuno ne è stato segnalato, certamente» disse Father Brown.

«Nessun gigantesco corpo dell’assassino con la sciarpa di lana» disse il signor Taylor.

«No» disse Father Brown.

La bocca del signor Taylor non si mosse più per il momento; ma le sue narici parlarono per lui con un disprezzo così rapido e fremente, che avrebbero quasi potuto dirsi loquaci.

Quando parlò di nuovo, dopo alcuni cortesi luoghi comuni del prete, fu per dire seccamente: «Ecco che arriva l’ispettore; suppongo che abbiano setacciato tutta l’Inghilterra in cerca della sciarpa.»

L’ispettore Grinstead, un uomo dal volto abbronzato e dalla barba grigia a punta, si rivolse a Father Brown con un po’ più di rispetto di quanto avesse fatto il segretario.

«Ho pensato che le facesse piacere sapere, signore» disse, «che non c’è assolutamente traccia dell’uomo descritto come fuggito dal pontile.»

«O piuttosto non descritto come fuggito dal pontile» disse Taylor. «Gli inservienti del pontile, gli unici che avrebbero potuto descriverlo, non hanno mai visto nessuno da descrivere.»

«Ebbene» disse l’ispettore, «abbiamo telefonato a tutte le stazioni e sorvegliato tutte le strade, e gli sarà quasi impossibile fuggire dall’Inghilterra. A me pare proprio che non possa essersene andato per quella via. Non sembra essere da nessuna parte.»

«Non è mai stato da nessuna parte» disse il segretario, con una voce brusca e stridente, che risuonò come uno sparo su quella riva deserta.

L’ispettore parve smarrito; ma una luce sorse a poco a poco sul volto del prete, che disse infine con quasi ostentata noncuranza:

«Vuol dire che l’uomo era un mito? O forse una menzogna?»

«Ah» disse il segretario, inspirando attraverso le sue narici altezzose, «finalmente ci ha pensato.»

«Ci ho pensato fin da principio» disse Father Brown. «È la prima cosa a cui chiunque penserebbe, non è vero, udendo da uno sconosciuto una storia non corroborata su uno strano assassino su un pontile deserto. In parole povere, lei intende che il piccolo Muggleton non ha mai udito nessuno assassinare il milionario. Forse intende che il piccolo Muggleton lo ha assassinato lui stesso.»

«Ebbene» disse il segretario, «Muggleton ha l’aria di un tipo squallido e alla deriva, per me. Non c’è altra storia che la sua su ciò che è accaduto sul pontile, e la sua storia consiste in un gigante che è svanito; una vera fiaba. Non è un racconto molto credibile, nemmeno per come lo narra lui. A suo stesso dire, ha mandato all’aria il suo compito e ha lasciato uccidere il suo protettore a pochi metri di distanza. È un bel sciocco fallito, per sua stessa confessione.»

«Sì» disse Father Brown. «Ho una certa simpatia per le persone che sono sciocche e fallite per loro stessa confessione.»

«Non so cosa intenda» ribatté seccamente l’altro.

«Forse» disse Father Brown, malinconico, «è perché tanta gente è sciocca e fallita senza confessione alcuna.»

Poi, dopo una pausa, proseguì: «Ma anche se è uno sciocco e un fallito, ciò non prova che sia un bugiardo e un assassino. E lei ha dimenticato che c’è un elemento di prova esterna che davvero corrobora la storia. Intendo la lettera del milionario, che racconta tutta la vicenda di suo cugino e della sua vendetta. A meno che lei non riesca a provare che il documento stesso è un falso, deve ammettere che vi era una qualche probabilità che Bruce fosse inseguito da qualcuno che aveva un movente reale. O piuttosto, dovrei dire, l’unico movente effettivamente ammesso e registrato.»

«Non sono del tutto sicuro di capirla» disse l’ispettore, «riguardo al movente.»

«Mio caro amico» disse Father Brown, per la prima volta spinto dall’impazienza alla familiarità, «tutti hanno un movente, in un certo senso. Considerato il modo in cui Bruce ha fatto i suoi soldi, considerato il modo in cui la maggior parte dei milionari fa i suoi soldi, quasi chiunque al mondo avrebbe potuto compiere una cosa così perfettamente naturale come gettarlo in mare. In molti, si potrebbe quasi immaginare, sarebbe quasi automatico. A quasi tutti dev’essere venuto in mente in un momento o nell’altro. Il signor Taylor potrebbe averlo fatto.»

«Cosa dice?» ribatté seccamente il signor Taylor, e le sue narici si gonfiarono visibilmente.

«Potrei averlo fatto io» proseguì Father Brown, «nisi me constringeret ecclesiae auctoritas. Chiunque, se non fosse per l’unica vera morale, potrebbe essere tentato di accettare una soluzione sociale così ovvia, così semplice. Potrei averlo fatto io; potrebbe averlo fatto lei; potrebbe averlo fatto il sindaco o il venditore di focacce. L’unica persona su questa terra a cui io riesca a pensare, che probabilmente non lo avrebbe fatto, è l’agente investigativo privato che Bruce aveva appena ingaggiato a cinque sterline la settimana, e che non aveva ancora ricevuto un soldo del suo denaro.»

The secretary was silent for a moment; then he snorted and said: ‘If that’s the offer in the letter, we’d certainly better see whether it’s a forgery. For really, we don’t know that the whole tale isn’t as false as a forgery. The fellow admits himself that the disappearance of his hunch

• backed giant is utterly incredible and inexplicable.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown; ‘that’s what I like about Muggleton. He admits things.’

‘All the same,’ insisted Taylor, his nostrils vibrant with excitement. ‘All the same, the long and the short of it is that he can’t prove that his tall man in the scarf ever existed or does exist; and every single fact found by the police and the witnesses proves that he does not exist. No, Father Brown. There is only one way in which you can justify this little scallywag you seem to be so fond of. And that is by producing his Imaginary Man. And that is exactly what you can’t do.’

‘By the way,’ said the priest, absent - mindedly, ‘I suppose you come from the hotel where Bruce has rooms, Mr Taylor?’

Taylor looked a little taken aback, and seemed almost to stammer. ‘Well, he always did have those rooms; and they’re practically his. I haven’t actually seen him there this time.’

‘I suppose you motored down with him,’ observed Brown; ‘or did you both come by train?’

‘I came by train and brought the luggage,’ said the secretary impatiently. ‘Something kept him, I suppose. I haven’t actually seen him since he left Yorkshire on his own a week or two ago.’

‘So it seems,’ said the priest very softly, ‘that if Muggleton wasn’t the last to see Bruce by the wild sea - waves, you were the last to see him, on the equally wild Yorkshire moors.’

Taylor had turned quite white, but he forced his grating voice to composure: ‘I never said Muggleton didn’t see Bruce on the pier.’

‘No; and why didn’t you?’ asked Father Brown. ‘If he made up one man on the pier, why shouldn’t he make up two men on the pier? Of course we do know that Bruce did exist; but we don’t seem to know what has happened to him for several weeks. Perhaps he was left behind in Yorkshire.’

The rather strident voice of the secretary rose almost to a scream. All his veneer of society suavity seemed to have vanished.

‘You’re simply shuffling! You’re simply shirking! You’re trying to drag in mad insinuations about me, simply because you can’t answer my question.’

‘Let me see,’ said Father Brown reminiscently. ‘What was your question?’

‘You know well enough what it was; and you know you’re damned well stumped by it. Where is the man with the scarf? Who has seen him? Whoever heard of him or spoke of him, except that little liar of yours? If you want to convince us, you must produce him. If he ever existed, he may be hiding in the Hebrides or off to Callao. But you’ve got to produce him, though I know he doesn’t exist. Well then! Where is he?’

‘I rather think he is over there,’ said Father Brown, peering and blinking towards the nearer waves that washed round the iron pillars of the pier; where the two figures of the agent and the old fisher and preacher were still dark against the green glow of the water. ‘I mean in that sort of net thing that’s tossing about in the sea.’

With whatever bewilderment, Inspector Grinstead took the upper hand again with a flash, and strode down the beach.

‘Do you mean to say,’ he cried, ‘that the murderer’s body is in the old boy’s net?’

Father Brown nodded as he followed down the shingly slope; and, even as they moved, little Muggleton the agent turned and began to climb the same shore, his mere dark outline a pantomime of amazement and discovery.

‘It’s true, for all we said,’ he gasped. ‘The murderer did try to swim ashore and was drowned, of course, in that weather. Or else he did really commit suicide. Anyhow, he drifted dead into Old Brimstone’s fishing - net, and that’s what the old maniac meant when he said he fished for dead men.’

The Inspector ran down the shore with an agility that outstripped them all, and was heard shouting out orders. In a few moments the fishermen and a few bystanders, assisted by the policemen, had hauled the net into shore, and rolled it with its burden on to the wet sands that still reflected the sunset. The secretary looked at what lay on the sands and the words died on his lips. For what lay on the sands was indeed the body of a gigantic man in rags, with the huge shoulders somewhat humped and bony eagle face; and a great red ragged woollen scarf or comforter, sprawled along the sunset sands like a great stain of blood. But Taylor was staring not at the gory scarf or the fabulous stature, but at the face; and his own face was a conflict of incredulity and suspicion.

The Inspector instantly turned to Muggleton with a new air of civility.

‘This certainly confirms your story,’ he said. And until he heard the tone of those words, Muggleton had never guessed how almost universally his story had been disbelieved. Nobody had believed him. Nobody but Father Brown.

Therefore, seeing Father Brown edging away from the group, he made a movement to depart in his company; but even then he was brought up rather short by the discovery that the priest was once more being drawn away by the deadly attractions of the funny little automatic machines. He even saw the reverend gentleman fumbling for a penny. He stopped, however, with the penny poised in his finger and thumb, as the secretary spoke for the last time in his loud discordant voice.

‘And I suppose we may add,’ he said, ‘that the monstrous and imbecile charges against me are also at an end.’

‘My dear sir,’ said the priest, ‘I never made any charges against you. I’m not such a fool as to suppose you were likely to murder your master in Yorkshire and then come down here to fool about with his luggage. All I said was that I could make out a better case against you than you were making out so vigorously against poor Mr Muggleton. All the same, if you really want to learn the truth about his business (and I assure you the truth isn’t generally grasped yet), I can give you a hint even from your own affairs. It is rather a rum and significant thing that Mr Bruce the millionaire had been unknown to all his usual haunts and habits for weeks before he was really killed. As you seem to be a promising amateur detective, I advise you to work on that line.’

Il segretario tacque per un momento; poi sbuffò e disse: «Se quella è l’offerta contenuta nella lettera, faremmo davvero meglio a controllare se è un falso. Perché in realtà non sappiamo se l’intero racconto non sia falso quanto un falso. Il tale ammette lui stesso che la scomparsa del suo gigante gobbo è assolutamente incredibile e inspiegabile.»

«Sì» disse Father Brown; «è questo che mi piace di Muggleton. Ammette le cose.»

«Ciò nondimeno» insisté Taylor, le narici vibranti d’eccitazione. «Ciò nondimeno, la sostanza della faccenda è che egli non può provare che il suo uomo alto con la sciarpa sia mai esistito o esista; e ogni singolo fatto accertato dalla polizia e dai testimoni prova che egli non esiste. No, Father Brown. C’è un solo modo in cui lei può giustificare questo piccolo furfante di cui pare tanto invaghito. Ed è produrre il suo Uomo Immaginario. Ed è esattamente ciò che lei non può fare.»

«A proposito» disse il prete distrattamente, «suppongo che lei venga dall’albergo dove Bruce ha le sue stanze, signor Taylor?»

Taylor parve un poco sconcertato, e sembrò quasi balbettare. «Ebbene, le ha sempre avute, quelle stanze; e sono praticamente sue. In realtà non l’ho visto là, questa volta.»

«Suppongo che sia sceso in automobile con lui» osservò Brown; «o siete venuti entrambi in treno?»

«Io sono venuto in treno e ho portato i bagagli» disse il segretario con impazienza. «Qualcosa lo avrà trattenuto, suppongo. In realtà non lo vedo da quando ha lasciato lo Yorkshire per conto suo una o due settimane fa.»

«Così pare» disse il prete molto sommessamente, «che se Muggleton non è stato l’ultimo a vedere Bruce presso le selvagge onde del mare, lei è stato l’ultimo a vederlo, sulle brughiere altrettanto selvagge dello Yorkshire.»

Taylor era diventato del tutto bianco, ma costrinse la sua voce stridente alla compostezza: «Non ho mai detto che Muggleton non abbia visto Bruce sul pontile.»

«No; e perché no?» chiese Father Brown. «Se ha inventato un uomo sul pontile, perché non dovrebbe averne inventati due, di uomini sul pontile? Naturalmente noi sappiamo che Bruce è davvero esistito; ma non pare che sappiamo cosa gli sia accaduto in queste ultime settimane. Forse è rimasto indietro nello Yorkshire.»

La voce piuttosto stridula del segretario si levò quasi a un grido. Tutta la sua vernice di mondana affabilità pareva essere svanita.

«Lei sta semplicemente tergiversando! Sta semplicemente svicolando! Sta cercando di trascinare dentro pazze insinuazioni sul mio conto, semplicemente perché non sa rispondere alla mia domanda.»

«Vediamo un po’» disse Father Brown con aria di reminiscenza. «Qual era la sua domanda?»

«Lo sa benissimo qual era; e sa di esserne dannatamente bene bloccato. Dov’è l’uomo con la sciarpa? Chi lo ha visto? Chi mai ne ha sentito parlare o ne ha parlato, se non quel piccolo bugiardo del suo protetto? Se vuole convincerci, deve produrlo. Se mai è esistito, potrà nascondersi nelle Ebridi o essere fuggito a Callao. Ma lei deve produrlo, benché io sappia che non esiste. Ebbene allora! Dov’è?»

«Sono piuttosto propenso a credere che sia laggiù» disse Father Brown, scrutando e sbattendo le palpebre verso le onde più vicine che si frangevano attorno ai pilastri di ferro del pontile; dove le due figure dell’agente e del vecchio pescatore e predicatore erano ancora scure contro il verde bagliore dell’acqua. «Intendo in quella specie di rete che va sballottandosi nel mare.»

Con quale che fosse lo sconcerto, l’ispettore Grinstead riprese il sopravvento in un lampo, e scese a grandi passi lungo la spiaggia.

«Vuol dire» gridò, «che il corpo dell’assassino è nella rete del vecchietto?»

Father Brown annuì mentre lo seguiva giù per il pendio ghiaioso; e, proprio mentre si muovevano, il piccolo Muggleton, l’agente, si voltò e cominciò a risalire la medesima riva, la sua semplice sagoma scura una pantomima di stupore e di scoperta.

«È vero, malgrado tutto quel che dicevamo» ansimò. «L’assassino ha davvero tentato di raggiungere la riva a nuoto ed è annegato, naturalmente, con quel tempo. Oppure ha davvero commesso suicidio. Comunque, è andato alla deriva, morto, dentro la rete da pesca del vecchio Zolfanello, ed è questo che intendeva quel vecchio maniaco quando disse di pescare uomini morti.»

L’ispettore corse giù per la riva con un’agilità che li superò tutti, e lo si udì gridare ordini. In pochi istanti i pescatori e alcuni astanti, aiutati dai poliziotti, avevano tratto la rete a riva, e l’avevano rotolata col suo fardello sulla sabbia bagnata che ancora rifletteva il tramonto. Il segretario guardò ciò che giaceva sulla sabbia e le parole gli morirono sulle labbra. Perché ciò che giaceva sulla sabbia era davvero il corpo di un uomo gigantesco vestito di stracci, con le enormi spalle un po’ curve e la faccia ossuta d’aquila; e una grande sciarpa o passamontagna di lana rossa e sbrindellata, distesa lungo la sabbia del tramonto come una grande macchia di sangue. Ma Taylor fissava non la sciarpa insanguinata o la favolosa statura, bensì il volto; e il suo stesso volto era un conflitto d’incredulità e di sospetto.

L’ispettore si volse all’istante verso Muggleton con una nuova aria di cortesia.

«Questo conferma di certo la sua storia» disse. E finché non udì il tono di quelle parole, Muggleton non aveva mai immaginato quanto quasi universalmente la sua storia fosse stata scredita. Nessuno gli aveva creduto. Nessuno tranne Father Brown.

Perciò, vedendo Father Brown allontanarsi pian piano dal gruppo, fece un movimento per partire in sua compagnia; ma anche allora fu trattenuto piuttosto bruscamente dalla scoperta che il prete era di nuovo attratto dalle mortali seduzioni delle buffe macchinette automatiche. Vide perfino il reverendo gentiluomo frugarsi in cerca di una monetina. Si fermò, tuttavia, con la monetina in bilico tra il pollice e l’indice, mentre il segretario parlava per l’ultima volta con la sua voce alta e discorde.

«E suppongo che possiamo aggiungere» disse, «che anche le mostruose e imbecilli accuse contro di me siano finite.»

«Mio caro signore» disse il prete, «non ho mai mosso alcuna accusa contro di lei. Non sono così sciocco da supporre che lei fosse propenso ad assassinare il suo padrone nello Yorkshire e poi a scendere quaggiù a gingillarsi coi suoi bagagli. Tutto ciò che ho detto è che io potrei costruire un’accusa migliore contro di lei di quella che lei andava costruendo con tanto vigore contro il povero signor Muggleton. Ciò nondimeno, se davvero vuole apprendere la verità su questa faccenda (e le assicuro che la verità non è ancora generalmente afferrata), posso darle un indizio persino dai suoi stessi affari. È cosa piuttosto strana e significativa che il signor Bruce il milionario sia rimasto ignoto a tutti i suoi soliti ritrovi e alle sue abitudini per settimane prima di essere realmente ucciso. Poiché lei sembra essere un promettente investigatore dilettante, le consiglio di lavorare su quella pista.»

‘What do you mean?’ asked Taylor sharply.

But he got no answer out of Father Brown, who was once more completely concentrated on jiggling the little handle of the machine, that made one doll jump out and then another doll jump after it.

‘Father Brown,’ said Muggleton, his old annoyance faintly reviving: ‘Will you tell me why you like that fool thing so much?’

‘For one reason,’ replied the priest, peering closely into the glass puppet - show. ‘Because it contains the secret of this tragedy.’

Then he suddenly straightened himself; and looked quite seriously at his companion.

‘I knew all along,’ he said, ‘that you were telling the truth and the opposite of the truth.’

Muggleton could only stare at a return of all the riddles.

‘It’s quite simple,’ added the priest, lowering his voice. ‘That corpse with the scarlet scarf over there is the corpse of Braham Bruce the millionaire. There won’t be any other.’

‘But the two men - ’ began Muggleton, and his mouth fell open.

‘Your description of the two men was quite admirably vivid,’ said Father Brown. ‘I assure you I’m not at all likely to forget it. If I may say so, you have a literary talent; perhaps journalism would give you more scope than detection. I believe I remember practically each point about each person. Only, you see, queerly enough, each point affected you in one way and me in exactly the opposite way. Let’s begin with the first you mentioned. You said that the first man you saw had an indescribable air of authority and dignity. And you said to yourself, “That’s the Trust Magnate, the great merchant prince, the ruler of markets.” But when I heard about the air of dignity and authority, I said to myself, “That’s the actor; everything about this is the actor, “ You don’t get that look by being President of the Chain Store Amalgamation Company. You get that look by being Hamlet’s Father’s Ghost, or Julius Caesar, or King Lear, and you never altogether lose it. You couldn’t see enough of his clothes to tell whether they were really seedy, but you saw a strip of fur and a sort of faintly fashionable cut; and I said to myself again, “The actor.”

Next, before we go into details about the other man, notice one thing about him evidently absent from the first man. You said the second man was not only ragged but unshaven to the point of being bearded. Now we have all seen shabby actors, dirty actors, drunken actors, utterly disreputable actors. But such a thing as a scrub - bearded actor, in a job or even looking round for a job, has scarcely been seen in this world. On the other hand, shaving is often almost the first thing to go, with a gentleman or a wealthy eccentric who is really letting himself go to pieces. Now we have every reason to believe that your friend the millionaire was letting himself go to pieces. His letter was the letter of a man who had already gone to pieces. But it wasn’t only negligence that made him look poor and shabby. Don’t you understand that the man was practically in hiding? That was why he didn’t go to his hotel; and his own secretary hadn’t seen him for weeks. He was a millionaire; but his whole object was to be a completely disguised millionaire. Have you ever read “The Woman in White”? Don’t you remember that the fashionable and luxurious Count Fosco, fleeing for his life before a secret society, was found stabbed in the blue blouse of a common French workman? Then let us go back for a moment to the demeanour of these men. You saw the first man calm and collected and you said to yourself, “That’s the innocent victim”; though the innocent victim’s own letter wasn’t at all calm and collected. I heard he was calm and collected; and I said to myself, “That’s the murderer.” Why should he be anything else but calm and collected? He knew what he was going to do. He had made up his mind to do it for a long time; if he had ever had any hesitation or remorse he had hardened himself against them before he came on the scene - in his case, we might say, on the stage. He wasn’t likely to have any particular stage - fright. He didn’t pull out his pistol and wave it about; why should he? He kept it in his pocket till he wanted it; very likely he fired from his pocket. The other man fidgeted with his pistol because he was nervous as a cat, and very probably had never had a pistol before. He did it for the same reason that he rolled his eyes; and I remember that, even in your own unconscious evidence, it is particularly stated that he rolled them backwards. In fact, he was looking behind him. In fact, he was not the pursuer but the pursued. But because you happened to see the first man first, you couldn’t help thinking of the other man as coming up behind him. In mere mathematics and mechanics, each of them was running after the other - just like the others.’

‘What others?’ inquired the dazed detective.

‘Why, these,’ cried Father Brown, striking the automatic machine with the little wooden spade, which had incongruously remained in his hand throughout these murderous mysteries. ‘These little clockwork dolls that chase each other round and round for ever. Let us call them Mr Blue and Mr Red, after the colour of their coats. I happened to start off with Mr Blue, and so the children said that Mr Red was running after him; but it would have looked exactly the contrary if I had started with Mr Red.’

‘Yes, I begin to see,’ said Muggleton; ‘and I suppose all the rest fits in. The family likeness, of course, cuts both ways, and they never saw the murderer leaving the pier - ’

‘They never looked for the murderer leaving the pier,’ said the other. ‘Nobody told them to look for a quiet clean - shaven gentleman in an astrakhan coat. All the mystery of his vanishing revolved on your description of a hulking fellow in a red neckcloth. But the simple truth was that the actor in the astrakhan coat murdered the millionaire with the red rag, and there is the poor fellow’s body. It’s just like the red and blue dolls; only, because you saw one first, you guessed wrong about which was red with vengeance and which was blue with funk.’

At this point two or three children began to straggle across the sands, and the priest waved them to him with the wooden spade, theatrically tapping the automatic machine. Muggleton guessed that it was mainly to prevent their straying towards the horrible heap on the shore.

‘One more penny left in the world,’ said Father Brown, ‘and then we must go home to tea. Do you know, Doris, I rather like those revolving games, that just go round and round like the Mulberry - Bush. After all, God made all the suns and stars to play Mulberry - Bush. But those other games, where one must catch up with another, where runners are rivals and run neck and neck and outstrip each other; well - much nastier things seem to happen. I like to think of Mr Red and Mr Blue always jumping with undiminished spirits; all free and equal; and never hurting each other. “Fond lover, never, never, wilt thou kiss - or kill.” Happy, happy Mr Red!

He cannot change; though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever will thou jump; and he be Blue.

Reciting this remarkable quotation from Keats, with some emotion. Father Brown tucked the little spade under one arm, and giving a hand to two of the children, stumped solemnly up the beach to tea.

«Cosa intende?» chiese Taylor con asprezza.

Ma non ottenne alcuna risposta da Father Brown, che era di nuovo completamente concentrato nel far scattare la piccola leva della macchina, che faceva saltar fuori una bambola e poi un’altra bambola saltarle dietro.

«Father Brown» disse Muggleton, il suo vecchio cruccio risvegliandosi debolmente, «vuol dirmi perché quel sciocco aggeggio le piace tanto?»

«Per una ragione» rispose il prete, scrutando da vicino nello spettacolo di burattini di vetro. «Perché contiene il segreto di questa tragedia.»

Poi si raddrizzò all’improvviso; e guardò con grande serietà il suo compagno.

«Ho saputo fin dall’inizio» disse, «che lei diceva la verità e l’opposto della verità.»

Muggleton non poté che fissarlo, al ritorno di tutti gli enigmi.

«È molto semplice» aggiunse il prete, abbassando la voce. «Quel cadavere con la sciarpa scarlatta laggiù è il cadavere di Braham Bruce il milionario. Non ce ne sarà nessun altro.»

«Ma i due uomini…» cominciò Muggleton, e la bocca gli restò aperta.

«La sua descrizione dei due uomini era assai mirabilmente vivida» disse Padre Brown. «Le assicuro che non è affatto probabile che me la dimentichi. Se posso dirlo, lei ha un talento letterario; forse il giornalismo le darebbe più campo dell’investigazione. Credo di ricordare praticamente ogni particolare su ciascuna persona. Solo, vede, per quanto strano, ogni particolare ha influito su di lei in un modo e su di me nel modo esattamente opposto. Cominciamo dal primo che lei ha menzionato. Ha detto che il primo uomo che ha visto aveva un’aria indescrivibile d’autorità e di dignità. E si è detto: “Quello è il Magnate del Trust, il grande principe mercante, il sovrano dei mercati”. Ma quando ho sentito parlare di quell’aria di dignità e d’autorità, mi sono detto: “Quello è l’attore; ogni cosa in lui è l’attore”. Non si acquista quello sguardo essendo Presidente della Compagnia dei Grandi Magazzini a Catena. Si acquista quello sguardo essendo il Fantasma del Padre di Amleto, o Giulio Cesare, o Re Lear, e non lo si perde mai del tutto. Non poteva vedere abbastanza dei suoi abiti da giudicare se fossero davvero logori, ma ha visto una striscia di pelliccia e una foggia vagamente alla moda; e mi sono detto di nuovo: “L’attore”.

Poi, prima di entrare nei dettagli riguardo all’altro uomo, noti una cosa che in lui era manifestamente assente nel primo uomo. Lei ha detto che il secondo uomo non era solo cencioso ma tanto poco rasato da esser quasi barbuto. Ora, abbiamo tutti visto attori malandati, attori sporchi, attori ubriachi, attori del tutto poco raccomandabili. Ma una cosa come un attore dalla barba ispida, che ha un ingaggio o che ne sta perfino cercando uno, non si è quasi mai vista in questo mondo. D’altra parte, radersi è spesso quasi la prima cosa cui si rinuncia, in un gentiluomo o in un ricco eccentrico che davvero si sta lasciando andare a pezzi. Ora, abbiamo ogni ragione di credere che il suo amico milionario si stesse lasciando andare a pezzi. La sua lettera era la lettera di un uomo che si era già ridotto a pezzi. Ma non era solo la trascuratezza a farlo apparire povero e malandato. Non capisce che quell’uomo era praticamente nascosto? Ecco perché non andava al suo albergo; e il suo stesso segretario non lo vedeva da settimane. Era un milionario; ma il suo intero scopo era di essere un milionario completamente travestito. Ha mai letto “The Woman in White”? Non ricorda che il mondano e fastoso Conte Fosco, in fuga per salvarsi la vita davanti a una società segreta, fu trovato pugnalato nella blusa azzurra di un comune operaio francese? Torniamo dunque per un momento al contegno di questi uomini. Lei ha visto il primo uomo calmo e padrone di sé e si è detto: “Quella è la vittima innocente”; benché la lettera della vittima innocente stessa non fosse affatto calma e padrona di sé. Io ho sentito che era calmo e padrone di sé; e mi sono detto: “Quello è l’assassino”. Perché mai dovrebbe essere altro che calmo e padrone di sé? Sapeva ciò che stava per fare. Aveva deciso di farlo da lungo tempo; se mai aveva avuto qualche esitazione o rimorso, se n’era indurito contro prima di comparire sulla scena – nel suo caso, potremmo dire, sul palcoscenico. Non era probabile che avesse alcuna particolare paura del palcoscenico. Non tirò fuori la pistola agitandola qua e là; perché avrebbe dovuto? La tenne in tasca finché non gliene fu bisogno; molto probabilmente sparò dalla tasca. L’altro uomo si agitava con la pistola perché era nervoso come un gatto, e molto probabilmente non aveva mai avuto una pistola prima d’allora. Lo faceva per la stessa ragione per cui roteava gli occhi; e ricordo che, perfino nella sua stessa deposizione inconsapevole, si afferma in particolare che li roteava all’indietro. In effetti, guardava dietro di sé. In effetti, non era l’inseguitore ma l’inseguito. Ma poiché a lei capitò di vedere per primo il primo uomo, non poté fare a meno di pensare all’altro come a colui che gli sopraggiungeva alle spalle. In pura matematica e meccanica, ciascuno dei due correva dietro all’altro – proprio come gli altri.»

«Quali altri?» s’informò l’investigatore frastornato.

«Ma questi» esclamò Father Brown, colpendo la macchina automatica con la piccola paletta di legno, che, incongruamente, gli era rimasta in mano per tutta la durata di questi misteri assassini. «Queste piccole bambole a orologeria che si rincorrono l’un l’altra in tondo per sempre. Chiamiamole signor Blue e signor Red, dal colore delle loro giacche. A me capitò di cominciare col signor Blue, e così i bambini dissero che il signor Red gli correva dietro; ma sarebbe sembrato esattamente il contrario se avessi cominciato col signor Red.»

«Sì, comincio a vedere» disse Muggleton; «e suppongo che tutto il resto si incastri. La somiglianza di famiglia, naturalmente, taglia da entrambi i lati, e non videro mai l’assassino lasciare il pontile…»

«Non cercarono mai l’assassino che lasciava il pontile» disse l’altro. «Nessuno disse loro di cercare un tranquillo gentiluomo ben rasato con un cappotto d’astracan. Tutto il mistero della sua scomparsa ruotava attorno alla sua descrizione di un energumeno con una sciarpa rossa al collo. Ma la semplice verità era che l’attore col cappotto d’astracan assassinò il milionario con lo straccio rosso, ed ecco là il corpo del pover’uomo. È proprio come le bambole rossa e blu; solo che, poiché lei ne vide una per prima, indovinò male su quale fosse rossa di vendetta e quale blu di paura.»

A questo punto due o tre bambini cominciarono a sparpagliarsi sulla sabbia, e il prete li chiamò a sé con la paletta di legno, battendo teatralmente sulla macchina automatica. Muggleton intuì che era soprattutto per impedire che vagassero verso l’orribile mucchio sulla riva.

«Un’ultima monetina rimasta al mondo» disse Father Brown, «e poi dobbiamo tornare a casa per il tè. Sai, Doris, mi piacciono piuttosto quei giochi rotanti, che girano e rigirano in tondo come il Cespuglio di Gelso. Dopo tutto, Dio fece tutti i soli e le stelle per giocare al Cespuglio di Gelso. Ma quegli altri giochi, in cui uno deve raggiungere un altro, in cui i corridori sono rivali e corrono alla pari e si sopravanzano l’un l’altro; be’ – sembrano accadervi cose assai più brutte. Mi piace pensare al signor Red e al signor Blue che saltano sempre con immutato spirito; tutti liberi e uguali; e senza mai farsi male a vicenda. “Tenero amante, mai, mai potrai baciare – o uccidere.” Felice, felice signor Red!

Egli non può mutare; benché tu non abbia la tua beatitudine,

Per sempre tu salterai; ed egli sarà Blue.

Recitando questa notevole citazione di Keats, con una certa emozione, Padre Brown si infilò la piccola paletta sotto un braccio, e dando la mano a due dei bambini, s’incamminò solennemente su per la spiaggia verso il tè.

SIX: The Crime of the Communist

Three men came out from under the lowbrowed Tudor arch in the mellow facade of Mandeville College, into the strong evening sunlight of a summer day which seemed as if it would never end; and in that sunlight they saw something that blasted like lightning; well - fitted to be the shock of their lives.

Even before they had realized anything in the way of a catastrophe, they were conscious of a contrast. They themselves, in a curious quiet way, were quite harmonious with their surroundings. Though the Tudor arches that ran like a cloister round the College gardens had been built four hundred years ago, at that moment when the Gothic fell from heaven and bowed, or almost crouched, over the cosier chambers of Humanism and the Revival of Learning - though they themselves were in modern clothes (that is in clothes whose ugliness would have amazed any of the four centuries) yet something in the spirit of the place made them all at

SEI: Il delitto del comunista

Tre uomini uscirono di sotto il basso arco Tudor nella morbida facciata del Mandeville College, dentro la forte luce serale di una giornata d’estate che pareva non dovesse finire mai; e in quella luce videro qualcosa che folgorò come un fulmine; ben atto a essere lo shock della loro vita.

Ancora prima d’aver còlto alcunché che somigliasse a una catastrofe, ebbero coscienza di un contrasto. Essi medesimi, in una loro curiosa e quieta maniera, s’accordavano perfettamente con ciò che li circondava. Sebbene gli archi Tudor che correvano come un chiostro intorno ai giardini del College fossero stati eretti quattrocento anni addietro, in quell’istante in cui il Gotico cadde dal cielo e s’inchinò, o quasi si rannicchiò, sopra le più accoglienti stanze dell’Umanesimo e della Rinascita degli studi — sebbene essi stessi vestissero abiti moderni (vale a dire abiti la cui bruttezza avrebbe stupito qualunque dei quattro secoli), pure qualcosa nello spirito del luogo li rendeva tutti a

one. The gardens had been tended so carefully as to achieve the final triumph of looking careless; the very flowers seemed beautiful by accident, like elegant weeds; and the modern costumes had at least any picturesqueness that can be produced by being untidy. The first of the three, a tall, bald, bearded maypole of a man, was a familiar figure in the Quad in cap and gown; the gown slipped off one of his sloping shoulders. The second was very square - shouldered, short and compact, with a rather jolly grin, commonly clad in a jacket, with his gown over his arm. The third was even shorter and much shabbier, in black clerical clothes. But they all seemed suitable to Mandeville College; and the indescribable atmosphere of the two ancient and unique Universities of England. They fitted into it and they faded into it; which is there regarded as most fitting.

The two men seated on garden chairs by a little table were a sort of brilliant blot on this grey - green landscape. They were clad mostly in black and yet they glittered from head to heel, from their burnished top

• hats to their perfectly polished boots. It was dimly felt as an outrage that anybody should be so well - dressed in the well - bred freedom of Mandeville College. The only excuse was that they were foreigners. One was an American, a millionaire named Hake, dressed in the spotlessly and sparklingly gentlemanly manner known only to the rich of New York. The other, who added to all these things the outrage of an astrakhan overcoat (to say nothing of a pair of florid whiskers), was a German Count of great wealth, the shortest part of whose name was Von Zimmern. The mystery of this story, however, is not the mystery of why they were there. They were there for the reason that commonly explains the meeting of incongruous things; they proposed to give the College some money. They had come in support of a plan supported by several financiers and magnates of many countries, for founding a new Chair of Economics at Mandeville College. They had inspected the College with that tireless conscientious sightseeing of which no sons of Eve are capable except the American and the German. And now they were resting from their labours and looking solemnly at the College gardens. So far so good.

The three other men, who had already met them, passed with a vague salutation; but one of them stopped; the smallest of the three, in the black clerical clothes.

‘I say,’ he said, with rather the air of a frightened rabbit, ‘I don’t like the look of those men.’

‘Good God! Who could?’ ejaculated the tall man, who happened to be the Master of Mandeville. ‘At least we have some rich men who don’t go about dressed up like tailors’ dummies.’

‘Yes,’ hissed the little cleric, ‘that’s what I mean. Like tailors’ dummies.’

‘Why, what do you mean?’ asked the shorter of the other men, sharply.

‘I mean they’re like horrible waxworks,’ said the cleric in a faint voice. ‘I mean they don’t move. Why don’t they move?’

Suddenly starting out of his dim retirement, he darted across the garden and touched the German Baron on the elbow. The German Baron fell over, chair and all, and the trousered legs that stuck up in the air were as stiff as the legs of the chair.

Mr Gideon P. Hake continued to gaze at the College gardens with glassy eyes; but the parallel of a waxwork confirmed the impression that they were like eyes made of glass. Somehow the rich sunlight and the coloured garden increased the creepy impression of a stiffly dressed doll; a marionette on an Italian stage. The small man in black, who was a priest named Brown, tentatively touched the millionaire on the shoulder, and the millionaire fell sideways, but horribly all of a piece, like something carved in wood.

‘Rigor mortis,’ said Father Brown, ‘and so soon. But it does vary a good deal.’

The reason the first three men had joined the other two men so late (not to say too late) will best be understood by noting what had happened just inside the building, behind the Tudor archway, but a short time before they came out. They had all dined together in Hall, at the High Table; but the two foreign philanthropists, slaves of duty in the matter of seeing everything, had solemnly gone back to the chapel, of which one cloister and a staircase remained unexamined; promising to rejoin the rest in the garden, to examine as earnestly the College cigars. The rest, in a more reverent and right - minded spirit, had adjourned as usual to the long narrow oak table, round which the after - dinner wine had circulated, for all anybody knew, ever since the College had been founded in the Middle Ages by Sir John Mandeville, for the encouragement of telling stories. The Master, with the big fair beard and bald brow, took the head of the table, and the squat man in the square jacket sat on his left; for he was the Bursar or business man of the College. Next to him, on that side of the table, sat a queer - looking man with what could only be called a crooked face; for its dark tufts of moustache and eyebrow, slanting at contrary angles, made a sort of zig - zag, as if half his face were puckered or paralysed. His name was Byles; he was the lecturer in Roman History, and his political opinions were founded on those of Coriolanus, not to mention Tarquinius Superbus. This tart Toryism, and rabidly reactionary view of all current problems, was not altogether unknown among the more old - fashioned sort of dons; but in the case of Byles there was a suggestion that it was a result rather than a cause of his acerbity. More than one sharp observer had received the impression that there was something really wrong with Byles; that some secret or some great misfortune had embittered him; as if that half

• withered face had really been blasted like a storm - stricken tree. Beyond him again sat Father Brown and at the end of the table a Professor of Chemistry, large and blond and bland, with eyes that were sleepy and perhaps a little sly. It was well known that this natural philosopher regarded the other philosophers, of a more classical tradition, very much as old logics. On the other side of the table, opposite Father Brown, was a very swarthy and silent young man, with a black pointed beard, introduced because somebody had insisted on having a Chair of Persian; opposite the sinister Byles was a very mild - looking little Chaplain, with a head like an egg. Opposite the Bursar and at the right hand of the Master, was an empty chair; and there were many there who were glad to see it empty.

uno. I giardini erano stati curati con tanta cura da conseguire il trionfo finale dell’apparire trascurati; gli stessi fiori parevano belli per caso, come eleganti erbacce; e gli abiti moderni possedevano almeno quel tanto di pittoresco che può nascere dal disordine. Il primo dei tre, un uomo alto, calvo, barbuto, lungo come un albero della cuccagna, era una figura ben nota nel Quad, in tocco e toga; e la toga gli scivolava giù da una delle spalle spioventi. Il secondo aveva spalle molto quadre, era basso e tarchiato, con un ghigno piuttosto gioviale, di solito vestito in giacca, con la toga sul braccio. Il terzo era ancor più basso e assai più malandato, in nera veste ecclesiastica. Ma tutti e tre parevano adatti al Mandeville College; e all’atmosfera indefinibile delle due antiche e uniche Università d’Inghilterra. Vi si accordavano e vi si dileguavano; il che lì è considerato quanto di più conveniente.

I due uomini seduti su seggiole da giardino presso un tavolino erano una sorta di brillante macchia su quel paesaggio grigioverde. Erano vestiti quasi tutti di nero, eppure scintillavano da capo a piedi, dai loro lucidi cilindri agli stivali perfettamente lustri. Si avvertiva confusamente come un oltraggio che qualcuno potesse essere così ben vestito nella libertà di buon tono del Mandeville College. L’unica scusante era che erano stranieri. Uno era un americano, un milionario di nome Hake, vestito in quella maniera immacolata e sfavillante da gentiluomo che solo i ricchi di New York conoscono. L’altro, che a tutto ciò aggiungeva l’oltraggio di un cappotto d’astrakan (per non dire d’un paio di fioriti favoriti), era un Conte tedesco di grande ricchezza, la parte più breve del cui nome era Von Zimmern. Il mistero di questa storia, tuttavia, non è il mistero del perché si trovassero là. Si trovavano là per la ragione che comunemente spiega l’incontro delle cose incongrue; si proponevano di dare al College un po’ di denaro. Erano venuti a sostegno d’un progetto appoggiato da diversi finanzieri e magnati di molti paesi, per fondare una nuova Cattedra di Economia al Mandeville College. Avevano ispezionato il College con quell’instancabile e coscienziosa smania di veder tutto di cui nessun figlio d’Eva è capace tranne l’americano e il tedesco. E ora riposavano dalle loro fatiche, contemplando solennemente i giardini del College. Fin qui tutto bene.

Gli altri tre uomini, che già li avevano incontrati, passarono con un vago saluto; ma uno di loro si fermò; il più piccolo dei tre, in nera veste ecclesiastica.

«Sentite,» disse, con l’aria piuttosto d’un coniglio spaventato, «non mi piace l’aspetto di quei due uomini.»

«Santo cielo! A chi potrebbe piacere?» esclamò l’uomo alto, che si dava il caso fosse il Rettore del Mandeville. «Almeno abbiamo qualche uomo ricco che non se ne va in giro conciato come un manichino da sarto.»

«Sì,» sibilò il piccolo chierico, «è proprio questo che voglio dire. Come manichini da sarto.»

«Ma via, che intendete?» chiese, brusco, il più basso degli altri.

«Intendo che sembrano orribili figure di cera,» disse il chierico con voce fioca. «Intendo che non si muovono. Perché non si muovono?»

D’improvviso, balzando fuori dal suo oscuro ritegno, guizzò attraverso il giardino e toccò il Barone tedesco al gomito. Il Barone tedesco cadde all’indietro, sedia e tutto, e le gambe inguainate nei pantaloni che si drizzarono in aria erano rigide quanto le gambe della sedia.

Il signor Gideon P. Hake continuava a fissare i giardini del College con occhi vitrei; ma il paragone con la figura di cera confermava l’impressione che fossero occhi fatti di vetro. In qualche modo la luce ricca del sole e il giardino variopinto accrescevano l’inquietante impressione d’una bambola vestita di tutto punto; una marionetta su un palcoscenico italiano. Il piccolo uomo in nero, che era un prete di nome Brown, toccò tentennante il milionario sulla spalla, e il milionario cadde di lato, ma orribilmente tutto d’un pezzo, come qualcosa intagliato nel legno.

«Rigor mortis,» disse Father Brown, «e così presto. Ma varia parecchio, in verità.»

Il motivo per cui i primi tre uomini avevano raggiunto gli altri due tanto tardi (per non dire troppo tardi) si comprenderà meglio notando ciò che era accaduto proprio all’interno dell’edificio, dietro l’arco Tudor, poco tempo prima che uscissero. Avevano cenato tutti insieme nella Hall, all’High Table; ma i due filantropi stranieri, schiavi del dovere in fatto di veder tutto, erano solennemente tornati alla cappella, di cui un chiostro e una scala restavano ancora da esaminare; promettendo di ricongiungersi agli altri nel giardino, per esaminare con altrettanta serietà i sigari del College. Gli altri, con spirito più reverente e assennato, si erano ritirati come al solito attorno al lungo, stretto tavolo di quercia, intorno al quale il vino del dopo cena era circolato, per quanto ne sapeva chiunque, fin da quando il College era stato fondato nel Medioevo da Sir John Mandeville, per incoraggiare l’arte del narrar storie. Il Rettore, con la gran barba bionda e la fronte calva, prese il capo del tavolo, e l’uomo tozzo dalla giacca quadrata sedette alla sua sinistra; giacché era l’Economo, ovvero l’uomo d’affari del College. Accanto a lui, da quel lato del tavolo, sedeva un uomo dall’aspetto strano, con quello che non si poteva chiamare altrimenti che un volto storto; poiché i suoi scuri ciuffi di baffi e sopracciglia, inclinati ad angoli contrari, formavano una sorta di zig-zag, come se metà del suo viso fosse raggrinzita o paralizzata. Si chiamava Byles; era il lettore di Storia Romana, e le sue opinioni politiche si fondavano su quelle di Coriolano, per non dire di Tarquinio il Superbo. Questo aspro conservatorismo, e questa visione rabbiosamente reazionaria d’ogni problema corrente, non era del tutto ignoto tra i docenti di stampo più antiquato; ma nel caso di Byles si insinuava il sospetto che fosse più un effetto che una causa della sua acredine. Più d’un osservatore acuto aveva ricevuto l’impressione che ci fosse davvero qualcosa di guasto in Byles; che qualche segreto o qualche grande sventura l’avesse inasprito; come se quel volto mezzo avvizzito fosse stato davvero fulminato come un albero colpito dalla tempesta. Più in là ancora sedeva Father Brown, e in fondo al tavolo un Professore di Chimica, grande, biondo e mellifluo, con occhi assonnati e forse un po’ furbi. Era ben noto che questo filosofo naturale considerava gli altri filosofi, di tradizione più classica, press’a poco come vecchie logiche. Dall’altro lato del tavolo, di fronte a Father Brown, sedeva un giovanotto molto bruno e silenzioso, con una barbetta nera a punta, introdotto perché qualcuno aveva insistito per avere una Cattedra di Persiano; di fronte al sinistro Byles sedeva un Cappellano piccolo e mitissimo d’aspetto, con una testa a forma d’uovo. Di fronte all’Economo e alla destra del Rettore c’era una sedia vuota; e molti tra i presenti erano lieti di vederla vuota.

‘I don’t know whether Craken is coming,’ said the Master, not without a nervous glance at the chair, which contrasted with the usual languid freedom of his demeanour. ‘I believe in giving people a lot of rope myself; but I confess I’ve reached the point of being glad when he is here, merely because he isn’t anywhere else.’

‘Never know what he’ll be up to next,’ said the Bursar, cheerfully, ‘especially when he’s instructing the young.’

‘A brilliant fellow, but fiery of course,’ said the Master, with a rather abrupt relapse into reserve.

“Fireworks are fiery, and also brilliant,” growled old Byles, ‘but I don’t want to be burned in my bed so that Craken can figure as a real Guy Fawkes.’

‘Do you really think he would join a physical force revolution, if there were one,’ asked the Bursar smiling.

‘Well, he thinks he would,’ said Byles sharply. ‘Told a whole hall full of undergraduates the other day that nothing now could avert the Class War turning into a real war, with killing in the streets of the town; and it didn’t matter, so long as it ended in Communism and the victory of the working - class.’

‘The Class War,’ mused the Master, with a sort of distaste mellowed by distance; for he had known William Morris long ago and been familiar enough with the more artistic and leisurely Socialists. ‘I never can understand all this about the Class War. When I was young, Socialism was supposed to mean saying that there are no classes.’

“Nother way of saying that Socialists are no class,’ said Byles with sour relish.

‘Of course, you’d be more against them than I should,’ said the Master thoughtfully, ‘but I suppose my Socialism is almost as old - fashioned as your Toryism. Wonder what our young friends really think. What do you think. Baker?’ he said abruptly to the Bursar on his left.

‘Oh, I don’t think, as the vulgar saying is,’ said the Bursar laughing. ‘You must remember I’m a very vulgar person. I’m not a thinker. I’m only a business man; and as a business man I think it’s all bosh. You can’t make men equal and it’s damned bad business to pay them equal; especially a lot of them not worth paying for at all. Whatever it is, you’ve got to take the practical way out, because it’s the only way out. It’s not our fault if nature made everything a scramble.’

‘I agree with you there,’ said the Professor of Chemistry, speaking with a lisp that seemed childish in so large a man. ‘Communism pretends to be oh so modern; but it is not. Throwback to the superstitions of monks and primitive tribes. A scientific government, with a really ethical responsibility to posterity, would be always looking for the line of promise and progress; not levelling and flattening it all back into the mud again. Socialism is sentimentalism; and more dangerous than a pestilence, for in that at least the fittest would survive.’

The Master smiled a little sadly. ‘You know you and I will never feel quite the same about differences of opinion. Didn’t somebody say up here, about walking with a friend by the river, “Not differing much, except in opinion.” Isn’t that the motto of a university? To have hundreds of opinions and not be opinionated. If people fall here, it’s by what they are, not what they think. Perhaps I’m a relic of the eighteenth century; but I incline to the old sentimental heresy, “For forms of faith let graceless zealots fight; he can’t he wrong whose life is in the right.” What do you think about that, Father Brown?’

He glanced a little mischievously across at the priest and was mildly startled. For he had always found the priest very cheerful and amiable and easy to get on with; and his round face was mostly solid with good humour. But for some reason the priest’s face at this moment was knotted with a frown much more sombre than any the company had ever seen on it; so that for an instant that commonplace countenance actually looked darker and more ominous than the haggard face of Byles. An instant later the cloud seemed lo have passed; but Father Brown still spoke with a certain sobriety and firmness.

‘I don’t believe in that, anyhow,’ he said shortly. ‘How can his life be in the right, if his whole view of life is wrong? That’s a modern muddle that arose because people didn’t know how much views of life can differ. Baptists and Methodists knew they didn’t differ very much in morality; but then they didn’t differ very much in religion or philosophy. It’s quite different when you pass from the Baptists to the Anabaptists; or from the Theosophists to the Thugs. Heresy always does affect morality, if it’s heretical enough. I suppose a man may honestly believe that thieving isn’t wrong. But what’s the good of saying that he honestly believes in dishonesty?’

‘Damned good,’ said Byles with a ferocious contortion of feature, believed by many to be meant for a friendly smile. ‘And that’s why I object to having a Chair of Theoretical Thieving in this College.’

‘Well, you’re all very down on Communism, of course,’ said the Master, with a sigh. ‘But do you really think there’s so much of it to be down on? Are any of your heresies really big enough to be dangerous?’

‘I think they have grown so big,’ said Father Brown gravely, ‘that in some circles they are already taken for granted. They are actually unconscious. That is, without conscience.’

‘And the end of it,’ said Byles, ‘will be the ruin of this country.’

‘The end will be something worse,’ said Father Brown.

A shadow shot or slid rapidly along the panelled wall opposite, as swiftly followed by the figure that had flung it; a tall but stooping figure with a vague outline like a bird of prey; accentuated by the fact that its sudden appearance and swift passage were like those of a bird startled and flying from a bush. It was only the figure of a long - limbed, high - shouldered man with long drooping moustaches, in fact, familiar enough to them all; but something in the twilight and candlelight and the flying and streaking shadow connected it strangely with the priest’s unconscious words of omen; for all the world, as if those words had indeed been an augury, in the old Roman sense; and the sign of it the flight of a bird. Perhaps Mr Byles might have given a lecture on such Roman augury; and especially on that bird of ill - omen.

«Non so se Craken verrà,» disse il Rettore, non senza uno sguardo nervoso alla sedia, che contrastava con la consueta languida libertà del suo contegno. «Io stesso credo nel dare alla gente molta corda; ma confesso di essere giunto al punto di rallegrarmi quando lui è qui, semplicemente perché non è da nessun’altra parte.»

«Non si sa mai cosa combinerà la prossima volta,» disse l’Economo allegramente, «specie quando istruisce i giovani.»

«Un tipo brillante, ma focoso, naturalmente,» disse il Rettore, con una ricaduta piuttosto brusca nel riserbo.

«I fuochi d’artificio sono focosi, e anche brillanti,» borbottò il vecchio Byles, «ma non voglio esser bruciato nel mio letto perché Craken possa figurare come un vero Guy Fawkes.»

«Crede davvero che si unirebbe a una rivoluzione di forza fisica, se ce ne fosse una?» chiese l’Economo sorridendo.

«Beh, lui crede che lo farebbe,» disse Byles seccamente. «L’altro giorno ha detto a un’intera aula piena di studenti che ormai nulla poteva impedire alla Lotta di Classe di trasformarsi in una vera guerra, con gente ammazzata per le strade della città; e che non importava, purché finisse nel Comunismo e nella vittoria della classe operaia.»

«La Lotta di Classe,» meditò il Rettore, con una sorta di disgusto addolcito dalla distanza; poiché aveva conosciuto William Morris tanto tempo prima ed era stato abbastanza familiare con i Socialisti più artistici e agiati. «Non riesco proprio a capire tutta questa faccenda della Lotta di Classe. Quando ero giovane, si supponeva che Socialismo volesse dire affermare che non esistono classi.»

«Un altro modo di dire che i Socialisti non hanno classe,» disse Byles con acido compiacimento.

«Naturalmente, lei sarebbe più contro di loro di quanto lo sia io,» disse il Rettore pensosamente, «ma suppongo che il mio Socialismo sia antiquato quasi quanto il suo Conservatorismo. Chissà cosa pensano davvero i nostri giovani amici. Lei cosa ne pensa, Baker?» disse bruscamente all’Economo alla sua sinistra.

«Oh, io non penso, come dice il volgo,» disse l’Economo ridendo. «Deve ricordare che sono una persona molto volgare. Non sono un pensatore. Sono soltanto un uomo d’affari; e da uomo d’affari penso che sia tutta una fandonia. Non si possono rendere gli uomini uguali, ed è un pessimo affare pagarli allo stesso modo; specie una gran parte di loro che non merita affatto d’esser pagata. Comunque stiano le cose, bisogna prendere la via pratica d’uscita, perché è l’unica via d’uscita. Non è colpa nostra se la natura ha fatto di tutto una mischia.»

«Su questo sono d’accordo con lei,» disse il Professore di Chimica, parlando con una zeppola che pareva infantile in un uomo così grosso. «Il Comunismo pretende d’essere oh così moderno; ma non lo è. Un ritorno alle superstizioni dei monaci e delle tribù primitive. Un governo scientifico, con una responsabilità davvero etica verso la posterità, sarebbe sempre alla ricerca della linea della promessa e del progresso; non a livellare e ad appiattire tutto di nuovo nel fango. Il Socialismo è sentimentalismo; e più pericoloso d’una pestilenza, perché in quella almeno sopravvivrebbero i più adatti.»

Il Rettore sorrise con un po’ di tristezza. «Sa, lei ed io non proveremo mai proprio lo stesso sentimento riguardo alle differenze d’opinione. Non disse qualcuno, qui da noi, a proposito del passeggiare con un amico lungo il fiume, “Non differendo di molto, se non nell’opinione”? Non è questo il motto di un’università? Avere centinaia di opinioni e non essere dogmatici. Se qui la gente cade, è per ciò che è, non per ciò che pensa. Forse io sono un relitto del diciottesimo secolo; ma propendo per la vecchia eresia sentimentale: “Per le forme di fede lascia che gli zeloti senza grazia combattano; non può aver torto colui la cui vita è nel giusto”. Lei cosa ne pensa, Father Brown?»

Gettò uno sguardo un po’ malizioso al prete, dall’altra parte del tavolo, e restò mitemente sorpreso. Poiché aveva sempre trovato il prete assai allegro, amabile e di facile compagnia; e il suo viso tondo era per lo più tutto solido buon umore. Ma per qualche ragione, in quel momento, il volto del prete era annodato da un cipiglio assai più cupo di qualsiasi altro la compagnia gli avesse mai visto; sicché per un istante quel volto comune parve davvero più scuro e più minaccioso del viso smunto di Byles. Un istante dopo la nube parve essere passata; ma Father Brown parlò ancora con una certa gravità e fermezza.

«Io a quella cosa non ci credo, comunque,» disse brevemente. «Come può la sua vita essere nel giusto, se tutta la sua visione della vita è sbagliata? È un pasticcio moderno nato perché la gente non sapeva quanto le visioni della vita possano differire. I Battisti e i Metodisti sapevano di non differire granché nella morale; ma allora non differivano granché neppure nella religione o nella filosofia. È tutt’altra cosa quando si passa dai Battisti agli Anabattisti; o dai Teosofi ai Thug. L’eresia influisce sempre sulla morale, se è abbastanza eretica. Suppongo che un uomo possa onestamente credere che rubare non sia male. Ma a che serve dire che egli crede onestamente nella disonestà?»

«Serve dannatamente bene,» disse Byles con una feroce contorsione dei lineamenti, che molti ritennero intesa come un sorriso amichevole. «Ed è per questo che mi oppongo ad avere una Cattedra di Furto Teorico in questo College.»

«Beh, siete tutti molto accaniti contro il Comunismo, naturalmente,» disse il Rettore con un sospiro. «Ma credete davvero che ce ne sia tanto contro cui accanirsi? Qualcuna delle vostre eresie è davvero abbastanza grande da essere pericolosa?»

«Credo che siano cresciute tanto,» disse Father Brown gravemente, «che in certi ambienti sono già date per scontate. Sono ormai inconsce. Cioè, senza coscienza.»

«E la fine di tutto ciò,» disse Byles, «sarà la rovina di questo paese.»

«La fine sarà qualcosa di peggio,» disse Father Brown.

Un’ombra scattò o scivolò rapida lungo la parete rivestita di pannelli di fronte, seguita con altrettanta rapidità dalla figura che l’aveva proiettata; una figura alta ma curva, dal profilo vago come quello d’un uccello rapace; accentuato dal fatto che la sua improvvisa apparizione e il suo rapido transito somigliavano a quelli d’un uccello spaventato che voli via da un cespuglio. Era soltanto la figura d’un uomo dalle membra lunghe e le spalle alte, con lunghi baffi cadenti, in verità abbastanza familiare a tutti loro; ma qualcosa nel crepuscolo e nella luce delle candele e nell’ombra volante e guizzante la collegava stranamente alle inconsapevoli parole d’augurio del prete; come se davvero quelle parole fossero state un presagio, nell’antico senso romano; e il segno di esso il volo d’un uccello. Forse il signor Byles avrebbe potuto tenere una lezione su tale augurio romano; e specialmente su quell’uccello di malaugurio.

The tall man shot along the wall like his own shadow until he sank into the empty chair on the Master’s right, and looked across at the Bursar and the rest with hollow and cavernous eyes. His hanging hair and moustache were quite fair, but his eyes were so deep - set that they might have been black. Everyone knew, or could guess, who the newcomer was; but an incident instantly followed that sufficiently illuminated the situation. The Professor of Roman History rose stiffly to his feet and stalked out of the room, indicating with little finesse his feelings about sitting at the same table with the Professor of Theoretical Thieving, otherwise the Communist, Mr Craken.

The Master of Mandeville covered the awkward situation with nervous grace. ‘I was defending you, or some aspects of you, my dear Craken,’ he said smiling, ‘though I am sure you would find me quite indefensible. After all, I can’t forget that the old Socialist friends of my youth had a very fine ideal of fraternity and comradeship. William Morris put it all in a sentence, “Fellowship is heaven; and lack of fellowship is hell.”

‘Dons as Democrats; see headline,’ said Mr Craken rather disagreeably. ‘And is Hard - Case Hake going to dedicate the new Commercial Chair to the memory of William Morris?’

‘Well,’ said the Master, still maintaining a desperate geniality, ‘I hope we may say, in a sense, that all our Chairs are Chairs of good - fellowship.’

‘Yes; that’s the academic version of the Morris maxim,’ growled Craken. ‘“A Fellowship is heaven; and lack of a Fellowship is hell.”’

‘Don’t be so cross, Craken,’ interposed the Bursar briskly. ‘Take some port. Tenby, pass the port to Mr Craken.’

‘Oh well, I’ll have a glass,’ said the Communist Professor a little less ungraciously. ‘I really came down here to have a smoke in the garden. Then I looked out of the window and saw your two precious millionaires were actually blooming in the garden; fresh, innocent buds. After all, it might be worth while to give them a bit of my mind.’

The Master had risen under cover of his last conventional cordiality, and was only too glad to leave the Bursar to do his best with the Wild Man. Others had risen, and the groups at the table had begun to break up; and the Bursar and Mr Craken were left more or less alone at the end of the long table. Only Father Brown continued to sit staring into vacancy with a rather cloudy expression.

‘Oh, as to that,’ said the Bursar. ‘I’m pretty tired of them myself, to tell the truth; I’ve been with them the best part of a day going into facts and figures and all the business of this new Professorship. But look here, Craken,’ and he leaned across the table and spoke with a sort of soft emphasis, ‘you really needn’t cut up so rough about this new Professorship. It doesn’t really interfere with your subject. You’re the only Professor of Political Economy at Mandeville and, though I don’t pretend to agree with your notions, everybody knows you’ve got a European reputation. This is a special subject they call Applied Economics. Well, even today, as I told you, I’ve had a hell of a lot of Applied Economics. In other words, I’ve had to talk business with two business men. Would you particularly want to do that? Would you envy it? Would you stand it? Isn’t that evidence enough that there is a separate subject and may well be a separate Chair?’

‘Good God,’ cried Craken with the intense invocation of the atheist. ‘Do you think I don’t want to apply Economics? Only, when we apply it, you call it red ruin and anarchy; and when you apply it, I take the liberty of calling it exploitation. If only you fellows would apply Economics, it’s just possible that people might get something to eat. We are the practical people; and that’s why you’re afraid of us. That’s why you have to get two greasy Capitalists to start another Lectureship; just because I’ve let the cat out of the bag.’

‘Rather a wild cat, wasn’t it?’ said the Bursar smiling, ‘that you let out of the bag?’

‘And rather a gold - bag, wasn’t it,’ said Craken, ‘that you are tying the cat up in again?’

‘Well, I don’t suppose we shall ever agree about all that,’ said the other. ‘But those fellows have come out of their chapel into the garden; and if you want to have your smoke there, you’d better come.’ He watched with some amusement his companion fumbling in all his pockets till he produced a pipe, and then, gazing at it with an abstracted air, Craken rose to his feet, but even in doing so, seemed to be feeling all over himself again. Mr Baker the Bursar ended the controversy with a happy laugh of reconciliation. ‘You are the practical people, and you will blow up the town with dynamite. Only you’ll probably forget the dynamite, as I bet you’ve forgotten the tobacco. Never mind, take a fill of mine. Matches?’ He threw a tobacco - pouch and its accessories across the table; to be caught by Mr Craken with that dexterity never forgotten by a cricketer, even when he adopts opinions generally regarded as not cricket. The two men rose together; but Baker could not forbear remarking, ‘Are you really the only practical people? Isn’t there anything to be said for the Applied Economics, that remembers to carry a tobacco - pouch as well as a pipe?’

Craken looked at him with smouldering eyes; and said at last, after slowly draining the last of his wine: ‘Let’s say there’s another sort of practicality. I dare say I do forget details and so on. What I want you to understand is this’ - he automatically returned the pouch; but his eyes were far away and jet - burning, almost terrible - ‘because the inside of our intellect has changed, because we really have a new idea of right, we shall do things you think really wrong. And they will be very practical.’

L’uomo alto scattò lungo la parete come la sua stessa ombra, finché non sprofondò nella sedia vuota alla destra del Rettore, e guardò dall’altra parte l’Economo e gli altri con occhi incavati e cavernosi. I suoi capelli e baffi spioventi erano assai chiari, ma gli occhi erano tanto infossati da poter sembrare neri. Tutti sapevano, o potevano indovinare, chi fosse il nuovo venuto; ma un incidente seguì all’istante, sufficiente a illuminare la situazione. Il Professore di Storia Romana si alzò rigidamente in piedi e uscì impettito dalla stanza, indicando con poca finezza i suoi sentimenti circa il sedere allo stesso tavolo con il Professore di Furto Teorico, altrimenti detto il Comunista, il signor Craken.

Il Rettore del Mandeville coprì la situazione imbarazzante con nervosa grazia. «Stavo difendendo lei, o alcuni aspetti di lei, mio caro Craken,» disse sorridendo, «benché sia certo che lei mi troverebbe del tutto indifendibile. Dopo tutto, non posso dimenticare che i vecchi amici Socialisti della mia gioventù avevano un ideale assai nobile di fratellanza e cameratismo. William Morris lo racchiuse tutto in una frase: “La fratellanza è il paradiso; e la mancanza di fratellanza è l’inferno”.»

«Docenti democratici; ecco il titolo di giornale,» disse il signor Craken piuttosto sgradevolmente. «E Hake il Duro dedicherà la nuova Cattedra Commerciale alla memoria di William Morris?»

«Beh,» disse il Rettore, mantenendo ancora una disperata cordialità, «spero che possiamo dire, in un certo senso, che tutte le nostre Cattedre sono Cattedre di buona fratellanza.»

«Sì; questa è la versione accademica della massima di Morris,» ringhiò Craken. «“Una Cattedra è il paradiso; e la mancanza d’una Cattedra è l’inferno”.»

«Non essere così scontroso, Craken,» s’intromise l’Economo con vivacità. «Prendi un po’ di porto. Tenby, passa il porto al signor Craken.»

«Oh, va bene, ne prenderò un bicchiere,» disse il Professore comunista un po’ meno sgarbatamente. «In realtà sono sceso qui per fumare in giardino. Poi ho guardato fuori dalla finestra e ho visto che i vostri due preziosi milionari erano davvero là a sbocciare in giardino; freschi, innocenti boccioli. Dopo tutto, potrebbe valer la pena di dir loro un po’ quel che penso.»

Il Rettore si era alzato sotto la copertura della sua ultima convenzionale cordialità, ed era anche troppo lieto di lasciare all’Economo il compito di far del suo meglio con l’Uomo Selvaggio. Altri si erano alzati, e i gruppi al tavolo avevano cominciato a sciogliersi; e l’Economo e il signor Craken restarono più o meno soli all’estremità del lungo tavolo. Solo Father Brown continuò a sedere fissando il vuoto con un’espressione piuttosto annuvolata.

«Oh, quanto a questo,» disse l’Economo. «Anch’io ne sono piuttosto stanco, a dir la verità; sono stato con loro la maggior parte della giornata a esaminare fatti e cifre e tutta la faccenda di questa nuova cattedra. Ma senti, Craken,» e si sporse attraverso il tavolo parlando con una sorta di dolce enfasi, «non hai davvero bisogno di prendertela tanto per questa nuova cattedra. Non interferisce affatto con la tua materia. Sei l’unico Professore di Economia Politica al Mandeville e, benché io non pretenda di condividere le tue idee, tutti sanno che hai una reputazione europea. Questa è una materia particolare che chiamano Economia Applicata. Beh, perfino oggi, come ti ho detto, ho avuto una montagna di Economia Applicata. In altre parole, ho dovuto parlar d’affari con due uomini d’affari. Vorresti davvero farlo tu? Lo invidieresti? Lo sopporteresti? Non è prova sufficiente che si tratta d’una materia distinta e che ben potrebbe essere una Cattedra distinta?»

«Santo cielo,» esclamò Craken con l’intensa invocazione dell’ateo. «Credi che io non voglia applicare l’Economia? Solo che, quando la applichiamo noi, tu la chiami rovina rossa e anarchia; e quando la applichi tu, io mi prendo la libertà di chiamarla sfruttamento. Se solo voialtri applicaste l’Economia, è appena possibile che la gente possa ottenere qualcosa da mangiare. Noi siamo i pratici; ed è per questo che avete paura di noi. Ecco perché dovete procurarvi due unti Capitalisti per avviare un’altra cattedra; soltanto perché io ho fatto uscire il segreto dal sacco.»

«Piuttosto un gatto selvatico, non è vero?» disse l’Economo sorridendo, «quello che hai fatto uscire dal sacco?»

«E piuttosto un sacco d’oro, non è vero,» disse Craken, «quello in cui state di nuovo rinchiudendo il gatto?»

«Beh, suppongo che su tutto ciò non saremo mai d’accordo,» disse l’altro. «Ma quei tizi sono usciti dalla loro cappella nel giardino; e se vuoi fumarti là la tua pipa, faresti meglio a venire.» Osservò con un certo divertimento il suo compagno frugarsi in tutte le tasche finché non produsse una pipa, e poi, fissandola con aria distratta, Craken si alzò in piedi, ma anche nel farlo pareva tastarsi di nuovo tutto addosso. Il signor Baker l’Economo pose fine alla controversia con un felice riso di riconciliazione. «Voi siete i pratici, e farete saltare in aria la città con la dinamite. Solo che probabilmente vi dimenticherete la dinamite, come scommetto che ti sei dimenticato il tabacco. Non importa, prendine una presa del mio. Fiammiferi?» Gettò attraverso il tavolo una borsa da tabacco e i suoi accessori; per esser presa al volo dal signor Craken con quella destrezza mai dimenticata da un giocatore di cricket, anche quando adotta opinioni generalmente ritenute non cricket. I due uomini si alzarono insieme; ma Baker non poté trattenersi dall’osservare: «Sei davvero tu l’unico pratico? Non c’è nulla da dire in favore dell’Economia Applicata, che si ricorda di portare una borsa da tabacco oltre alla pipa?»

Craken lo guardò con occhi covanti; e disse infine, dopo aver lentamente vuotato l’ultimo sorso di vino: «Diciamo che c’è un altro genere di praticità. Ammetto pure che dimentico i dettagli e via dicendo. Ciò che voglio tu comprenda è questo» – restituì automaticamente la borsa; ma i suoi occhi erano lontani e ardenti come giaietto, quasi terribili – «poiché l’interno del nostro intelletto è cambiato, poiché noi abbiamo davvero una nuova idea del giusto, faremo cose che tu ritieni davvero sbagliate. E saranno molto pratiche.»

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, suddenly coming out of his trance. ‘That’s exactly what I said.’

He looked across at Craken with a glassy and rather ghastly smile, saying: ‘Mr Craken and I are in complete agreement.’

‘Well,’ said Baker, ‘Craken is going out to smoke a pipe with the plutocrats; but I doubt whether it will be a pipe of peace.’

He turned rather abruptly and called to an aged attendant in the background. Mandeville was one of the last of the very old - fashioned Colleges; and even Craken was one of the first of the Communists; before the Bolshevism of today. ‘That reminds me,’ the Bursar was saying, ‘as you won’t hand round your peace pipe, we must send out the cigars to our distinguished guests. If they’re smokers they must be longing for a smoke; for they’ve been nosing about in the chapel since feeding - time.’

Craken exploded with a savage and jarring laugh. ‘Oh, I’ll take them their cigars,’ he said. ‘I’m only a proletarian.’

Baker and Brown and the attendant were all witnesses to the fact that the Communist strode furiously into the garden to confront the millionaires; but nothing more was seen or heard of them until, as is already recorded, Father Brown found them dead in their chairs.

It was agreed that the Master and the priest should remain to guard the scene of tragedy, while the Bursar, younger and more rapid in his movements, ran off to fetch doctors and policemen. Father Brown approached the table on which one of the cigars had burned itself away all but an inch or two; the other had dropped from the hand and been dashed out into dying sparks on the crazy - pavement. The Master of Mandeville sat down rather shakily on a sufficiently distant seat and buried his bald brow in his hands. Then he looked up at first rather wearily; and then he looked very startled indeed and broke the stillness of the garden with a word like a small explosion of horror.

There was a certain quality about Father Brown which might sometimes be called blood - curdling. He always thought about what he was doing and never about whether it was done; he would do the most ugly or horrible or undignified or dirty things as calmly as a surgeon. There was a certain blank, in his simple mind, of all those things commonly associated with being superstitious or sentimental. He sat down on the chair from which the corpse had fallen, picked up the cigar the corpse had partially smoked, carefully detached the ash, examined the butt - end and then stuck it in his mouth and lit it. It looked like some obscene and grotesque antic in derision of the dead; and it seemed to him to be the most ordinary common sense. A cloud floated upwards like the smoke of some savage sacrifice and idolatry; but to Father Brown it appeared a perfectly self - evident fact that the only way to find out what a cigar is like is to smoke it. Nor did it lessen the horror for his old friend, the Master of Mandeville, to have a dim but shrewd guess that Father Brown was, upon the possibilities of the case, risking his own life.

‘No; I think that’s all right,’ said the priest, putting the stump down again. ‘Jolly good cigars. Your cigars. Not American or German. I don’t think there’s anything odd about the cigar itself; but they’d better take care of the ashes. These men were poisoned somehow with the sort of stuff that stiffens the body quickly … By the way, there goes somebody who knows more about it than we do.’

The Master sat up with a curiously uncomfortable jolt; for indeed the large shadow which had fallen across the pathway preceded a figure which, however heavy, was almost as soft - footed as a shadow. Professor Wadham, eminent occupant of the Chair of Chemistry, always moved very quietly in spite of his size, and there was nothing odd about his strolling in the garden; yet there seemed something unnaturally neat in his appearing at the exact moment when chemistry was mentioned.

Professor Wadham prided himself on his quietude; some would say his insensibility. He did not turn a hair on his flattened flaxen head, but stood looking down at the dead men with a shade of something like indifference on his large froglike face. Only when he looked at the cigar - ash, which the priest had preserved, he touched it with one finger; then he seemed to stand even stiller than before; but in the shadow of his face his eyes for an instant seemed to shoot out telescopically like one of his own microscopes. He had certainly realized or recognized something; but he said nothing.

‘I don’t know where anyone is to begin in this business,’ said the Master.

‘I should begin,’ said Father Brown, ‘by asking where these unfortunate men had been most of the time today.’

‘They were messing about in my laboratory for a good time,’ said Wadham, speaking for the first time. ‘Baker often comes up to have a chat, and this time he brought his two patrons to inspect my department. But I think they went everywhere; real tourists. I know they went to the chapel and even into the tunnel under the crypt, where you have to light candles; instead of digesting their food like sane men. Baker seems to have taken them everywhere.’

‘Were they interested in anything particular in your department?’ asked the priest. ‘What were you doing there just then?’

The Professor of Chemistry murmured a chemical formula beginning with ‘sulphate’, and ending with something that sounded like ‘silenium’; unintelligible to both his hearers. He then wandered wearily away and sat on a remote bench in the sun, closing his eyes, but turning up his large face with heavy forbearance.

At his point, by a sharp contrast, the lawns were crossed by a brisk figure travelling as rapidly and as straight as a bullet; and Father Brown recognized the neat black clothes and shrewd doglike face of a police - surgeon whom he had met in the poorer parts of town. He was the first to arrive of the official contingent.

«Sì,» disse Father Brown, uscendo d’improvviso dalla sua trance. «È esattamente ciò che ho detto io.»

Guardò Craken dall’altra parte del tavolo con un sorriso vitreo e piuttosto spettrale, dicendo: «Il signor Craken ed io siamo in completo accordo.»

«Beh,» disse Baker, «Craken va fuori a fumarsi una pipa con i plutocrati; ma dubito che sarà una pipa di pace.»

Si voltò piuttosto bruscamente e chiamò un anziano inserviente sullo sfondo. Mandeville era uno degli ultimi College all’antica; e perfino Craken era uno dei primi Comunisti; d’avanti al Bolscevismo d’oggi. «Questo mi ricorda,» stava dicendo l’Economo, «che, dato che non vuoi far girare la tua pipa della pace, dobbiamo mandar fuori i sigari ai nostri illustri ospiti. Se sono fumatori, devono struggersi dal desiderio d’una fumata; giacché ficcano il naso nella cappella fin dall’ora del pasto.»

Craken proruppe in una risata selvaggia e stridente. «Oh, glieli porto io i loro sigari,» disse. «Sono soltanto un proletario.»

Baker e Brown e l’inserviente furono tutti testimoni del fatto che il Comunista si diresse furibondo nel giardino per affrontare i milionari; ma nulla di più si vide o si udì di loro finché, come già registrato, Father Brown non li trovò morti nelle loro sedie.

Si convenne che il Rettore e il prete restassero a sorvegliare la scena della tragedia, mentre l’Economo, più giovane e più rapido nei movimenti, correva a chiamare medici e poliziotti. Father Brown si avvicinò al tavolo sul quale uno dei sigari si era consumato per intero, tranne un pollice o due; l’altro era caduto dalla mano e si era spento in scintille morenti sul lastricato sconnesso. Il Rettore del Mandeville si sedette con mano piuttosto malferma su un sedile abbastanza discosto e affondò la fronte calva tra le mani. Poi alzò lo sguardo dapprima piuttosto stancamente; e poi parve davvero trasalire e ruppe l’immobilità del giardino con una parola simile a una piccola esplosione d’orrore.

C’era una certa qualità in Father Brown che talvolta si poteva definire da agghiacciare il sangue. Egli pensava sempre a ciò che stava facendo e mai a se fosse fatto; avrebbe compiuto le cose più brutte o orribili o indegne o sudicie con la stessa calma d’un chirurgo. C’era un certo vuoto, nella sua mente semplice, di tutte quelle cose comunemente associate all’essere superstiziosi o sentimentali. Si sedette sulla sedia dalla quale era caduto il cadavere, raccolse il sigaro che il cadavere aveva in parte fumato, ne staccò con cura la cenere, ne esaminò il mozzicone e poi se lo ficcò in bocca e l’accese. Sembrava una sorta di buffonata oscena e grottesca a derisione dei morti; e a lui pareva il più ordinario buon senso. Una nuvola si levò verso l’alto come il fumo di qualche selvaggio sacrificio idolatrico; ma a Father Brown appariva un fatto perfettamente autoevidente che l’unico modo per scoprire com’è un sigaro è fumarlo. Né valse a diminuire l’orrore, per il suo vecchio amico, il Rettore del Mandeville, avere il vago ma acuto sospetto che Father Brown, date le possibilità del caso, stesse rischiando la propria vita.

«No; credo che vada tutto bene,» disse il prete, riposando il mozzicone. «Ottimi sigari. I vostri sigari. Non americani né tedeschi. Non credo che ci sia nulla di strano nel sigaro in sé; ma farebbero meglio a occuparsi delle ceneri. Questi uomini sono stati avvelenati in qualche modo con quel genere di roba che irrigidisce il corpo rapidamente… A proposito, ecco che arriva qualcuno che ne sa più di noi.»

Il Rettore si raddrizzò con una scossa curiosamente a disagio; poiché in verità la grande ombra che era caduta di traverso al sentiero precedeva una figura che, per quanto pesante, era quasi lieve di passo quanto un’ombra. Il Professor Wadham, eminente titolare della Cattedra di Chimica, si muoveva sempre con gran quiete nonostante la mole, e non c’era nulla di strano nel suo passeggiare per il giardino; eppure pareva esserci qualcosa d’innaturalmente pulito nel suo comparire nell’esatto momento in cui si menzionava la chimica.

Il Professor Wadham si vantava della propria quiete; alcuni avrebbero detto della propria insensibilità. Non mosse un capello sul suo appiattito capo color lino, ma restò a guardare in basso i morti con un’ombra di qualcosa di simile all’indifferenza sul grande volto di rana. Solo quando guardò la cenere del sigaro, che il prete aveva conservato, la toccò con un dito; poi parve restare ancor più immobile di prima; ma nell’ombra del suo volto gli occhi per un istante parvero protendersi telescopicamente come uno dei suoi stessi microscopi. Aveva certamente compreso o riconosciuto qualcosa; ma non disse nulla.

«Non so da dove si debba cominciare in questa faccenda,» disse il Rettore.

«Io comincerei,» disse Father Brown, «col chiedere dove questi disgraziati abbiano trascorso gran parte del tempo oggi.»

«Hanno gironzolato nel mio laboratorio per un bel po’ di tempo,» disse Wadham, parlando per la prima volta. «Baker viene spesso su a far quattro chiacchiere, e questa volta ha portato i suoi due patroni a ispezionare il mio reparto. Ma credo che siano andati dappertutto; veri turisti. So che sono andati alla cappella e perfino nel tunnel sotto la cripta, dove bisogna accendere le candele; invece di digerire il cibo come persone assennate. Baker pare che li abbia portati dappertutto.»

«Erano interessati a qualcosa di particolare nel suo reparto?» chiese il prete. «Che cosa stava facendo lì proprio allora?»

Il Professore di Chimica mormorò una formula chimica che cominciava con «solfato» e finiva con qualcosa che suonava come «silenio»; incomprensibile a entrambi i suoi ascoltatori. Poi si allontanò stancamente e sedette su una panca lontana al sole, chiudendo gli occhi, ma volgendo in alto il grande volto con pesante indulgenza.

A questo punto, per un netto contrasto, i prati furono attraversati da una figura svelta che avanzava rapida e dritta come una pallottola; e Padre Brown riconobbe i lindi abiti neri e il viso astuto da cane d’un medico legale che aveva incontrato nei quartieri più poveri della città. Era il primo ad arrivare del contingente ufficiale.

‘Look here,’ said the Master to the priest, before the doctor was within earshot. ‘I must know something. Did you mean what you said about Communism being a real danger and leading to crime?’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown smiling rather grimly, ‘I have really noticed the spread of some Communist ways and influences; and, in one sense, this is a Communist crime.’

‘Thank you,’ said the Master. ‘Then I must go off and see to something at once. Tell the authorities I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

The Master had vanished into one of the Tudor archways at just about the moment when the police - doctor had reached the table and cheerfully recognized Father Brown. On the latter’s suggestion that they should sit down at the tragic table, Dr Blake threw one sharp and doubtful glance at the big, bland and seemingly somnolent chemist, who occupied a more remote seat. He was duly informed of the Professor’s identity, and what had so far been gathered of the Professor’s evidence; and listened to it silently while conducting a preliminary examination of the dead bodies. Naturally, he seemed more concentrated on the actual corpses than on the hearsay evidence, until one detail suddenly distracted him entirely from the science of anatomy.

‘What did the Professor say he was working at?’ he inquired.

Father Brown patiently repeated the chemical formula he did not understand.

‘What?’ snapped Dr Blake, like a pistol - shot. ‘Gosh! This is pretty frightful!’

‘Because it’s poison?’ inquired Father Brown.

‘Because it’s piffle,’ replied Dr Blake. ‘It’s simply nonsense. The Professor is quite a famous chemist. Why is a famous chemist deliberately talking nonsense?’

‘Well, I think I know that one,’ answered Father Brown mildly. ‘He is talking nonsense, because he is telling lies. He is concealing something; and he wanted specially to conceal it from these two men and their representatives.’

The doctor lifted his eyes from the two men and looked across at the almost unnaturally immobile figure of the great chemist. He might almost have been asleep; a garden butterfly had settled upon him and seemed to turn his stillness into that of a stone idol. The large folds of his froglike face reminded the doctor of the hanging skins of a rhinoceros.

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, in a very low voice. ‘He is a wicked man.’

‘God damn it all!’ cried the doctor, suddenly moved to his very depths. ‘Do you mean that a great scientific man like that deals in murder?’

‘Fastidious critics would have complained of his dealing in murder,’ said the priest dispassionately. ‘I don’t say I’m very fond of people dealing in murder in that way myself. But what’s much more to the point

• I’m sure that these poor fellows were among his fastidious critics.’

‘You mean they found his secret and he silenced them?’ said Blake frowning. ‘But what in hell was his secret? How could a man murder on a large scale in a place like this?’

‘I have told you his secret,’ said the priest. ‘It is a secret of the soul. He is a bad man. For heaven’s sake don’t fancy I say that because he and I are of opposite schools or traditions. I have a crowd of scientific friends; and most of them are heroically disinterested. Even of the most sceptical, I would only say they are rather irrationally disinterested. But now and then you do get a man who is a materialist, in the sense of a beast. I repeat he’s a bad man. Much worse than - ’ And Father Brown seemed to hesitate for a word.

‘You mean much worse than the Communist?’ suggested the other.

‘No; I mean much worse than the murderer,’ said Father Brown.

He got to his feet in an abstracted manner; and hardly realized that his companion was staring at him.

‘But didn’t you mean,’ asked Blake at last, ‘that this Wadham is the murderer?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Father Brown more cheerfully. ‘The murderer is a much more sympathetic and understandable person. He at least was desperate; and had the excuses of sudden rage and despair.’

‘Why,’ cried the doctor, ‘do you mean it was the Communist after all?’

It was at this very moment, appropriately enough, that the police officials appeared with an announcement that seemed to conclude the case in a most decisive and satisfactory manner. They had been somewhat delayed in reaching the scene of the crime, by the simple fact that they had already captured the criminal. Indeed, they had captured him almost at the gates of their own official residence. They had already had reason to suspect the activities of Craken the Communist during various disorders in the town; when they heard of the outrage they felt it safe to arrest him; and found the arrest thoroughly justified. For, as Inspector Cook radiantly explained to dons and doctors on the lawn of Mandeville garden, no sooner was the notorious Communist searched, than it was found that he was actually carrying a box of poisoned matches.

The moment Father Brown heard the word ‘matches’, he jumped from his seat as if a match had been lighted under him.

‘Ah,’ he cried, with a sort of universal radiance, ‘and now it’s all clear.’

‘What do you mean by all clear?’ demanded the Master of Mandeville, who had returned in all the pomp of his own officialism to match the pomp of the police officials now occupying the College like a victorious army. ‘Do you mean you are convinced now that the case against Craken is clear?’

‘I mean that Craken is cleared,’ said Father Brown firmly, ‘and the case against Craken is cleared away. Do you really believe Craken is the kind of man who would go about poisoning people with matches?’

‘That’s all very well,’ replied the Master, with the troubled expression he had never lost since the first sensation occurred. ‘But it was you yourself who said that fanatics with false principles may do wicked things. For that matter, it was you yourself who said that Communism is creeping up everywhere and Communistic habits spreading.’

«Senta,» disse il Rettore al prete, prima che il dottore fosse a portata d’orecchio. «Devo sapere una cosa. Intendeva davvero ciò che ha detto sul Comunismo come pericolo reale che porta al crimine?»

«Sì,» disse Father Brown sorridendo piuttosto tetramente, «ho davvero notato il diffondersi di alcuni modi e influssi comunisti; e, in un certo senso, questo è un crimine comunista.»

«Grazie,» disse il Rettore. «Allora devo assentarmi e occuparmi subito d’una cosa. Dica alle autorità che sarò di ritorno tra dieci minuti.»

Il Rettore era scomparso in uno degli archi Tudor proprio all’incirca nel momento in cui il medico legale aveva raggiunto il tavolo e allegramente riconosciuto Father Brown. Alla proposta di quest’ultimo di sedersi al tavolo della tragedia, il dottor Blake lanciò un’occhiata acuta e dubbiosa al grosso chimico mellifluo e apparentemente sonnolento, che occupava un sedile più discosto. Fu debitamente informato dell’identità del Professore, e di ciò che si era finora raccolto della testimonianza del Professore; e l’ascoltò in silenzio mentre conduceva un esame preliminare dei cadaveri. Naturalmente pareva più concentrato sui corpi effettivi che sulle testimonianze per sentito dire, finché un particolare non lo distolse d’un tratto interamente dalla scienza dell’anatomia.

«Che cosa ha detto di studiare, il Professore?» domandò.

Father Brown ripeté pazientemente la formula chimica che non capiva.

«Cosa?» scattò il dottor Blake, come un colpo di pistola. «Perbacco! Questo è piuttosto spaventoso!»

«Perché è un veleno?» domandò Father Brown.

«Perché è una sciocchezza,» rispose il dottor Blake. «È semplicemente un’assurdità. Il Professore è un chimico piuttosto famoso. Perché un chimico famoso dice deliberatamente delle sciocchezze?»

«Beh, credo di saperlo,» rispose Father Brown mitemente. «Dice sciocchezze perché sta mentendo. Sta nascondendo qualcosa; e voleva nasconderlo specialmente a questi due uomini e ai loro rappresentanti.»

Il dottore sollevò lo sguardo dai due uomini e guardò dall’altra parte la figura quasi innaturalmente immobile del grande chimico. Avrebbe potuto quasi dormire; una farfalla da giardino si era posata su di lui e pareva mutare la sua immobilità in quella d’un idolo di pietra. Le grandi pieghe del suo volto di rana ricordarono al dottore le pelli pendenti d’un rinoceronte.

«Sì,» disse Father Brown, con voce bassissima. «È un uomo malvagio.»

«Che Dio lo maledica!» esclamò il dottore, mosso d’improvviso fin nelle sue viscere. «Vuol dire che un grande uomo di scienza come quello traffica in omicidi?»

«I critici schizzinosi si sarebbero lamentati del suo trafficare in omicidi,» disse il prete con distacco. «Non dico che io stesso vada matto per la gente che traffica in omicidi a quel modo. Ma ciò che più conta – sono certo che quei poveri diavoli erano tra i suoi critici schizzinosi.»

«Vuol dire che scoprirono il suo segreto e lui li fece tacere?» disse Blake aggrottando le ciglia. «Ma qual era, diavolo, il suo segreto? Come poteva un uomo commettere un omicidio su vasta scala in un luogo come questo?»

«Le ho detto il suo segreto,» disse il prete. «È un segreto dell’anima. È un uomo cattivo. Per amor del cielo non pensi che lo dica perché lui ed io siamo di scuole o tradizioni opposte. Ho una folla di amici scienziati; e la maggior parte di loro è eroicamente disinteressata. Perfino dei più scettici direi soltanto che sono disinteressati in modo piuttosto irrazionale. Ma di tanto in tanto ci si imbatte in un uomo che è un materialista, nel senso di una bestia. Ripeto che è un uomo cattivo. Assai peggiore di —» E Father Brown parve esitare in cerca d’una parola.

«Vuol dire assai peggiore del Comunista?» suggerì l’altro.

«No; voglio dire assai peggiore dell’assassino,» disse Father Brown.

Si alzò in piedi con aria distratta; e a stento si accorse che il suo compagno lo fissava.

«Ma non intendeva dire,» chiese Blake infine, «che questo Wadham è l’assassino?»

«Oh, no,» disse Father Brown più allegramente. «L’assassino è una persona assai più simpatica e comprensibile. Egli almeno era disperato; e aveva le scusanti dell’improvvisa collera e della disperazione.»

«Ma come,» esclamò il dottore, «vuol dire che era il Comunista, dopotutto?»

Fu proprio in quel momento, abbastanza a proposito, che gli agenti di polizia comparvero con un annuncio che pareva concludere il caso nel modo più decisivo e soddisfacente. Erano stati alquanto ritardati nel raggiungere la scena del delitto dal semplice fatto che avevano già catturato il criminale. Anzi, lo avevano catturato quasi alle porte della loro stessa sede ufficiale. Avevano già avuto motivo di sospettare le attività di Craken il Comunista durante vari disordini in città; quando udirono dell’oltraggio ritennero sicuro arrestarlo; e trovarono l’arresto pienamente giustificato. Poiché, come l’Ispettore Cook spiegò raggiante a docenti e dottori sul prato del giardino di Mandeville, non appena il famigerato Comunista fu perquisito, si scoprì che portava effettivamente con sé una scatola di fiammiferi avvelenati.

Nel momento in cui Father Brown udì la parola «fiammiferi», balzò dal suo sedile come se un fiammifero fosse stato acceso sotto di lui.

«Ah,» esclamò, con una sorta d’universale raggiante letizia, «e ora è tutto chiaro.»

«Che cosa intende con tutto chiaro?» domandò il Rettore del Mandeville, che era tornato in tutta la pompa del proprio ufficialismo per pareggiare la pompa degli agenti di polizia che ora occupavano il College come un esercito vittorioso. «Vuol dire che ora è convinto che il caso contro Craken sia chiaro?»

«Voglio dire che Craken è scagionato,» disse Father Brown con fermezza, «e il caso contro Craken è tolto di mezzo. Crede davvero che Craken sia il tipo d’uomo che andrebbe in giro ad avvelenare la gente con dei fiammiferi?»

«Va benissimo tutto questo,» rispose il Rettore, con l’espressione turbata che non aveva mai perduto da quando era accaduta la prima scena. «Ma è stato lei stesso a dire che i fanatici con falsi principi possono compiere cose malvagie. Quanto a questo, è stato lei stesso a dire che il Comunismo va insinuandosi dappertutto e che le abitudini comuniste si diffondono.»

Father Brown laughed in a rather shamefaced manner.

‘As to the last point,’ he said, ‘I suppose I owe you all an apology. I seem to be always making a mess of things with my silly little jokes.’

‘Jokes!’ repeated the Master, staring rather indignantly.

‘Well,’ explained the priest, rubbing his head. ‘When I talked about a Communist habit spreading, I only meant a habit I happen to have noticed about two or three times even today. It is a Communist habit by no means confined to Communists. It is the extraordinary habit of so many men, especially Englishmen, of putting other people’s matchboxes in their pockets without remembering to return them. Of course, it seems an awfully silly little trifle to talk about. But it does happen to be the way the crime was committed.’

‘It sounds to me quite crazy,’ said the doctor.

‘Well, if almost any man may forget to return matches, you can bet your boots that Craken would forget to return them. So the poisoner who had prepared the matches got rid of them on to Craken, by the simple process of lending them and not getting them back. A really admirable way of shedding responsibility; because Craken himself would be perfectly unable to imagine where he had got them from. But when he used them quite innocently to light the cigars he offered to our two visitors, he was caught in an obvious trap; one of those too obvious traps. He was the bold bad Revolutionist murdering two millionaires.’

‘Well, who else would want to murder them?’ growled the doctor.

‘Ah, who indeed?’ replied the priest; and his voice changed to much greater gravity. ‘There we come to the other thing I told you; and that, let me tell you, was not a joke. I told you that heresies and false doctrines had become common and conversational; that everybody was used to them; that nobody really noticed them. Did you think I meant Communism when I said that? Why, it was just the other way. You were all as nervous as cats about Communism; and you watched Craken like a wolf. Of course. Communism is a heresy; but it isn’t a heresy that you people take for granted. It is Capitalism you take for granted; or rather the vices of Capitalism disguised as a dead Darwinism. Do you recall what you were all saying in the Common Room, about life being only a scramble, and nature demanding the survival of the fittest, and how it doesn’t matter whether the poor are paid justly or not? Why, that is the heresy that you have grown accustomed to, my friends; and it’s every bit as much a heresy as Communism. That’s the anti - Christian morality or immorality that you take quite naturally. And that’s the immorality that has made a man a murderer today.’

‘What man?’ cried the Master, and his voice cracked with a sudden weakness.

‘Let me approach it another way,’ said the priest placidly. ‘You all talk as if Craken ran away; but he didn’t. When the two men toppled over, he ran down the street, summoned the doctor merely by shouting through the window, and shortly afterwards was trying to summon the police. That was how he was arrested. But doesn’t it strike you, now one comes to think of it, that Mr Baker the Bursar is rather a long time looking for the police?’

‘What is he doing then?’ asked the Master sharply.

‘I fancy he’s destroying papers; or perhaps ransacking these men’s rooms to see they haven’t left us a letter. Or it may have something to do with our friend Wadham. Where does he come in? That is really very simple and a sort of joke too. Mr Wadham is experimenting in poisons for the next war; and has something of which a whiff of flame will stiffen a man dead. Of course, he had nothing to do with killing these men; but he did conceal his chemical secret for a very simple reason. One of them was a Puritan Yankee and the other a cosmopolitan Jew; and those two types are often fanatical Pacifists. They would have called it planning murder and probably refused to help the College. But Baker was a friend of Wadham and it was easy for him to dip matches in the new material.’

Another peculiarity of the little priest was that his mind was all of a piece, and he was unconscious of many incongruities; he would change the note of his talk from something quite public to something quite private, without any particular embarrassment. On this occasion, he made most of the company stare with mystification, by beginning to talk to one person when he had just been talking to ten; quite indifferent to the fact that only the one could have any notion of what he was talking about.

‘I’m sorry if I misled you, doctor, by that maundering metaphysical digression on the man of sin,’ he said apologetically. ‘Of course it had nothing to do with the murder; but the truth is I’d forgotten all about the murder for the moment. I’d forgotten everything, you see, but a sort of vision of that fellow, with his vast unhuman face, squatting among the flowers like some blind monster of the Stone Age. And I was thinking that some men are pretty monstrous, like men of stone; but it was all irrelevant. Being bad inside has very little to do with committing crimes outside. The worst criminals have committed no crimes. The practical point is why did the practical criminal commit this crime. Why did Baker the Bursar want to kill these men? That’s all that concerns us now. The answer is the answer to the question I’ve asked twice. Where were these men most of the time, apart from nosing in chapels or laboratories? By the Bursar’s own account, they were talking business with the Bursar.

‘Now, with all respect to the dead, I do not exactly grovel before the intellect of these two financiers. Their views on economics and ethics were heathen and heartless. Their views on Peace were tosh. Their views on Port were even more deplorable. But one thing they did understand; and that was business. And it took them a remarkably short time to discover that the business man in charge of the funds of this College was a swindler. Or shall I say, a true follower of the doctrine of the unlimited struggle for life and the survival of the fittest.’

‘You mean they were going to expose him and he killed them before they could speak,’ said the doctor frowning. ‘There are a lot of details I don’t understand.’

‘There are some details I’m not sure of myself,’ said the priest frankly. ‘I suspect all that business of candles underground had something to do with abstracting the millionaires’ own matches, or perhaps making sure they had no matches. But I’m sure of the main gesture, the gay and careless gesture of Baker tossing his matches to the careless Craken. That gesture was the murderous blow.’

‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ said the Inspector. ‘How did Baker know that Craken wouldn’t light up himself then and there at the table and become an unwanted corpse?’

The face of Father Brown became almost heavy with reproach; and his voice had a sort of mournful yet generous warmth in it.

‘Well, hang it all,’ he said, ‘he was only an atheist.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,’ said the Inspector, politely.

‘He only wanted to abolish God,’ explained Father Brown in a temperate and reasonable tone. ‘He only wanted to destroy the Ten Commandments and root up all the religion and civilization that had made him, and wash out all the common sense of ownership and honesty; and let his culture and his country be flattened out by savages from the ends of the earth. That’s all he wanted. You have no right to accuse him of anything beyond that. Hang it all, everybody draws the line somewhere! And you come here and calmly suggest that a Mandeville Man of the old generation (for Craken was of the old generation, whatever his views) would have begun to smoke, or even strike a match, while he was still drinking the College Port, of the vintage of ‘08 - no, no; men are not so utterly without laws and limits as all that! I was there; I saw him; he had not finished his wine, and you ask me why he did not smoke! No such anarchic question has ever shaken the arches of Mandeville College Funny place, Mandeville College. Funny place, Oxford. Funny place, England.’

‘But you haven’t anything particular to do with Oxford?’ asked the doctor curiously.

‘I have to do with England,’ said Father Brown. ‘I come from there. And the funniest thing of all is that even if you love it and belong to it, you still can’t make head or tail of it.’

Father Brown rise in modo piuttosto mortificato.

«Quanto a quest’ultimo punto,» disse, «suppongo di dovervi tutti una scusa. Pare che io faccia sempre un pasticcio con le mie sciocche piccole battute.»

«Battute!» ripeté il Rettore, fissandolo piuttosto indignato.

«Beh,» spiegò il prete, sfregandosi la testa. «Quando ho parlato d’un’abitudine comunista che si diffonde, intendevo solo un’abitudine che mi è capitato di notare due o tre volte perfino oggi. È un’abitudine comunista per nulla limitata ai Comunisti. È la straordinaria abitudine di tanti uomini, specie inglesi, di mettersi in tasca le scatole di fiammiferi altrui senza ricordarsi di restituirle. Naturalmente, sembra una sciocchezzuola terribilmente stupida di cui parlare. Ma si dà il caso che sia il modo in cui è stato commesso il delitto.»

«A me suona del tutto folle,» disse il dottore.

«Beh, se quasi chiunque può dimenticarsi di restituire i fiammiferi, potete scommetterci le scarpe che Craken se ne sarebbe dimenticato. Così l’avvelenatore che aveva preparato i fiammiferi se ne sbarazzò rifilandoli a Craken, col semplice espediente di prestarglieli e di non farseli restituire. Un modo davvero ammirevole di scaricare la responsabilità; poiché Craken stesso sarebbe stato perfettamente incapace d’immaginare da dove li avesse presi. Ma quando li usò del tutto innocentemente per accendere i sigari che offrì ai nostri due visitatori, cadde in una trappola evidente; una di quelle trappole troppo evidenti. Era l’audace e malvagio Rivoluzionario che assassinava due milionari.»

«Beh, chi altri avrebbe voluto ucciderli?» ringhiò il dottore.

«Ah, chi mai davvero?» rispose il prete; e la sua voce mutò in una gravità assai maggiore. «Qui giungiamo all’altra cosa che vi ho detto; e quella, lasciate che ve lo dica, non era una battuta. Vi ho detto che eresie e false dottrine erano divenute comuni e da conversazione; che tutti vi erano abituati; che nessuno le notava davvero. Credevate che intendessi il Comunismo, quando l’ho detto? Ma no, era proprio il contrario. Eravate tutti nervosi come gatti riguardo al Comunismo; e sorvegliavate Craken come un lupo. Naturalmente. Il Comunismo è un’eresia; ma non è un’eresia che voialtri date per scontata. È il Capitalismo che date per scontato; o piuttosto i vizi del Capitalismo travestiti da un morto Darwinismo. Ricordate ciò che dicevate tutti nel Common Room, sulla vita che è solo una mischia, e la natura che esige la sopravvivenza dei più adatti, e su come non importi se i poveri sono pagati giustamente o no? Ma quella è l’eresia a cui vi siete abituati, amici miei; ed è ogni briciolo un’eresia tanto quanto il Comunismo. È quella la morale, o immoralità, anticristiana che accogliete con tutta naturalezza. Ed è quell’immoralità che oggi ha fatto d’un uomo un assassino.»

«Quale uomo?» esclamò il Rettore, e la sua voce s’incrinò per un’improvvisa debolezza.

«Lasciate che l’affronti in un altro modo,» disse il prete placidamente. «Parlate tutti come se Craken fosse fuggito; ma non è fuggito. Quando i due uomini crollarono, corse giù per la strada, chiamò il dottore semplicemente gridando dalla finestra, e poco dopo cercava di chiamare la polizia. Fu così che venne arrestato. Ma non vi colpisce, ora che ci si pensa, che il signor Baker l’Economo impieghi un tempo piuttosto lungo a cercare la polizia?»

«E allora che sta facendo?» chiese il Rettore bruscamente.

«Immagino che stia distruggendo carte; o forse frugando le stanze di questi uomini per assicurarsi che non ci abbiano lasciato una lettera. Oppure potrebbe avere qualcosa a che fare col nostro amico Wadham. Dove entra lui in tutto questo? È in verità molto semplice e anche una sorta di battuta. Il signor Wadham sta sperimentando veleni per la prossima guerra; e possiede qualcosa di cui una vampata di fiamma irrigidisce un uomo, uccidendolo. Naturalmente, non aveva nulla a che fare con l’uccisione di questi uomini; ma nascose il suo segreto chimico per una ragione molto semplice. Uno di loro era uno yankee puritano e l’altro un ebreo cosmopolita; e quei due tipi sono spesso Pacifisti fanatici. Avrebbero chiamato ciò un progettare l’omicidio e probabilmente si sarebbero rifiutati di aiutare il College. Ma Baker era amico di Wadham ed era facile per lui intingere i fiammiferi nel nuovo materiale.»

Un’altra peculiarità del piccolo prete era che la sua mente era tutta d’un pezzo, ed egli era inconsapevole di molte incongruenze; passava dal tono d’un discorso del tutto pubblico a qualcosa di del tutto privato, senza alcun particolare imbarazzo. In questa occasione fece restare la maggior parte della compagnia a bocca aperta per la perplessità, cominciando a parlare a una sola persona quando aveva appena parlato a dieci; del tutto indifferente al fatto che solo quell’una potesse avere qualche nozione di ciò di cui parlava.

«Mi dispiace se l’ho fuorviata, dottore, con quella farneticante digressione metafisica sull’uomo del peccato,» disse in tono di scusa. «Naturalmente non aveva nulla a che fare con l’omicidio; ma la verità è che per un momento avevo dimenticato tutto dell’omicidio. Avevo dimenticato tutto, vede, tranne una sorta di visione di quel tizio, col suo vasto volto disumano, accovacciato tra i fiori come qualche cieco mostro dell’Età della Pietra. E stavo pensando che certi uomini sono piuttosto mostruosi, come uomini di pietra; ma era tutto irrilevante. L’essere cattivi dentro ha assai poco a che fare col commettere crimini fuori. I peggiori criminali non hanno commesso crimini. Il punto pratico è: perché il criminale pratico ha commesso questo crimine? Perché Baker l’Economo ha voluto uccidere questi uomini? È tutto ciò che ora ci riguarda. La risposta è la risposta alla domanda che ho posto due volte. Dove si trovavano questi uomini gran parte del tempo, a parte il ficcare il naso in cappelle o laboratori? Per stessa ammissione dell’Economo, parlavano d’affari con l’Economo.

«Ora, con tutto il rispetto per i morti, non mi prostro esattamente dinanzi all’intelletto di questi due finanzieri. Le loro vedute sull’economia e sull’etica erano pagane e senza cuore. Le loro vedute sulla Pace erano sciocchezze. Le loro vedute sul Porto erano ancor più deplorevoli. Ma una cosa capivano; e cioè gli affari. E ci misero un tempo notevolmente breve a scoprire che l’uomo d’affari incaricato dei fondi di questo College era un truffatore. O dovrei dire, un vero seguace della dottrina della lotta illimitata per la vita e della sopravvivenza dei più adatti.»

«Vuol dire che stavano per smascherarlo e lui li uccise prima che potessero parlare,» disse il dottore aggrottando le ciglia. «Ci sono un mucchio di dettagli che non capisco.»

«Ci sono alcuni dettagli di cui io stesso non sono sicuro,» disse il prete francamente. «Sospetto che tutta quella faccenda delle candele sottoterra avesse qualcosa a che fare col sottrarre ai milionari i loro fiammiferi, o forse con l’assicurarsi che non avessero fiammiferi. Ma sono certo del gesto principale, il gesto gaio e noncurante di Baker che gettava i suoi fiammiferi al noncurante Craken. Quel gesto fu il colpo micidiale.»

«C’è una cosa che non capisco,» disse l’Ispettore. «Come faceva Baker a sapere che Craken non si sarebbe acceso da sé lì per lì al tavolo, diventando un cadavere indesiderato?»

Il volto di Father Brown si fece quasi grave di rimprovero; e la sua voce ebbe una sorta di mesto ma generoso calore.

«Beh, accidenti a tutto,» disse, «era soltanto un ateo.»

«Temo di non capire che cosa intenda,» disse l’Ispettore, cortesemente.

«Voleva soltanto abolire Dio,» spiegò Father Brown in tono temperato e ragionevole. «Voleva soltanto distruggere i Dieci Comandamenti e sradicare tutta la religione e la civiltà che l’avevano fatto, e cancellare tutto il buon senso della proprietà e dell’onestà; e lasciare che la sua cultura e il suo paese fossero appiattiti dai selvaggi venuti dai confini della terra. Era tutto ciò che voleva. Non avete alcun diritto di accusarlo di nulla oltre a questo. Accidenti, ognuno traccia il limite da qualche parte! E voi venite qui a suggerire con calma che un Uomo di Mandeville della vecchia generazione (poiché Craken era della vecchia generazione, quali che fossero le sue vedute) avrebbe cominciato a fumare, o perfino ad accendere un fiammifero, mentre stava ancora bevendo il Porto del College, dell’annata dell’08 – no, no; gli uomini non sono così totalmente privi di leggi e di limiti! Io ero là; l’ho visto; non aveva finito il suo vino, e voi mi chiedete perché non fumò! Nessuna domanda tanto anarchica ha mai scosso le arcate del Mandeville College. Buffo posto, il Mandeville College. Buffo posto, Oxford. Buffo posto, l’Inghilterra.»

«Ma lei non ha nulla di particolare a che fare con Oxford?» chiese il dottore incuriosito.

«Ho a che fare con l’Inghilterra,» disse Father Brown. «Vengo di là. E la cosa più buffa di tutte è che, anche se la si ama e le si appartiene, non se ne riesce comunque a cavare né capo né coda.»

SEVEN: The Point of a Pin

Father Brown always declared that he solved this problem in his sleep. And this was true, though in rather an odd fashion; because it occurred at a time when his sleep was rather disturbed. It was disturbed very early in the morning by the hammering that began in the huge building, or half - building, that was in process of erection opposite to his rooms; a colossal pile of flats still mostly covered with scaffolding and with boards announcing Messrs Swindon & Sand as the builders and owners. The hammering was renewed at regular intervals and was easily recognizable: because Messrs Swindon & Sand specialized in some new American system of cement flooring which, in spite of its subsequent smoothness, solidity, impenetrability and permanent comfort (as described in the advertisements), had to be clamped down at certain points with heavy tools. Father Brown endeavoured, however, to extract exiguous comfort from it; saying that it always woke him up in time for the very earliest Mass, and was therefore something almost in the nature of a carillon. After all, he said, it was almost as poetic that Christians should be awakened by hammers as by bells. As a fact, however, the building operations were a little on his nerves, for another reason. For there was hanging like a cloud over the half - built skyscraper the possibility of a Labour crisis, which the newspapers doggedly insisted on describing as a Strike. As a matter of fact, if it ever happened, it would be a Lock - out. But he worried a good deal about whether it would happen. And it might be questioned whether hammering is more of a strain on the attention because it may go on for ever, or because it may stop at any minute.

‘As a mere matter of taste and fancy,’ said Father Brown, staring up at the edifice with his owlish spectacles, ‘I rather wish it would stop. I wish all houses would stop while they still have the scaffolding up. It seems almost a pity that houses are ever finished. They look so fresh and hopeful with all that fairy filigree of white wood, all light and bright in the sun; and a man so often only finishes a house by turning it into a tomb.’

As he turned away from the object of his scrutiny, he nearly ran into a man who had just darted across the road towards him. It was a man whom he knew slightly, but sufficiently to regard him (in the circumstances) as something of a bird of ill - omen. Mr Mastyk was a squat man with a square head that looked hardly European, dressed with a heavy dandyism that seemed rather too consciously Europeanized. But Brown had seen him lately talking to young Sand of the building firm; and he did not like it. This man Mastyk was the head of an organization rather new in English industrial politics; produced by extremes at both ends; a definite army of non - Union and largely alien labour hired out in gangs to various firms; and he was obviously hovering about in the hope of hiring it out to this one. In short, he might negotiate some way of out

• manoeuvring the Trade Union and flooding the works with blacklegs. Father Brown had been drawn into some of the debates, being in some sense called in on both sides. And as the Capitalists all reported that, to their positive knowledge, he was a Bolshevist; and as the Bolshevists all testified that he was a reactionary rigidly attached to bourgeois ideologies, it may be inferred that he talked a certain amount of sense without any appreciable effect on anybody. The news brought by Mr Mastyk, however, was calculated to jerk everybody out of the ordinary rut of the dispute.

‘They want you to go over there at once,’ said Mr Mastyk, in awkwardly accented English. ‘There is a threat to murder.’

Father Brown followed his guide in silence up several stairways and ladders to a platform of the unfinished building, on which were grouped the more or less familiar figures of the heads of the building business. They included even what had once been the head of it; though the head had been for some time rather a head in the clouds. It was at least a head in a coronet, that hid it from human sight like a cloud. Lord Stanes, in other words, had not only retired from the business but been caught up into the House of Lords and disappeared. His rare reappearances were languid and somewhat dreary; but this one, in conjunction with that of Mastyk, seemed none the less menacing. Lord Stanes was a lean, long - headed, hollow - eyed man with very faint fair hair fading into baldness; and he was the most evasive person the priest had ever met. He was unrivalled in the true Oxford talent of saying, ‘No doubt you’re right,’ so as to sound like, ‘No doubt you think you’re right,’ or of merely remarking, ‘You think so?’ so as to imply the acid addition, ‘You would.’ But Father Brown fancied that the man was not merely bored but faintly embittered, though whether at being called down from Olympus to control such trade squabbles, or merely at not being really any longer in control of them, it was difficult to guess.

On the whole, Father Brown rather preferred the more bourgeois group of partners. Sir Hubert Sand and his nephew Henry; though he doubted privately whether they really had very many ideologies. True, Sir Hubert Sand had obtained considerable celebrity in the newspapers; both as a patron of sport and as a patriot in many crises during and after the Great War. He had won notable distinction in France, for a man of his years, and had afterwards been featured as a triumphant captain of industry overcoming difficulties among the munition - workers. He had been called a Strong Man; but that was not his fault. He was in fact a heavy, hearty Englishman; a great swimmer; a good squire; an admirable amateur colonel. Indeed, something that can only be called a military makeup pervaded his appearance. He was growing stout, but he kept his shoulders set back; his curly hair and moustache were still brown while the colours of his face were already somewhat withered and faded. His nephew was a burly youth of the pushing, or rather shouldering, sort with a relatively small head thrust out on a thick neck, as if he went at things with his head down; a gesture somehow rendered rather quaint and boyish by the pince - nez that were balanced on his pugnacious pug - nose.

SETTE: La punta di uno spillo

Father Brown sosteneva sempre di aver risolto questo problema nel sonno. Ed era vero, benché in un modo alquanto singolare; poiché avvenne in un momento in cui il suo sonno era piuttosto disturbato. Era disturbato di primissimo mattino dal martellare che cominciava nell’enorme edificio, o mezzo edificio, che era in via di costruzione di fronte alle sue stanze; una colossale mole di appartamenti ancora per lo più coperta di impalcature e di cartelli che annunciavano i signori Swindon & Sand come costruttori e proprietari. Il martellare riprendeva a intervalli regolari ed era facilmente riconoscibile: perché i signori Swindon & Sand si erano specializzati in un nuovo sistema americano di pavimentazione in cemento che, a dispetto della sua successiva levigatezza, solidità, impenetrabilità e permanente comodità (come descritto nelle pubblicità), doveva essere fissato in certi punti con pesanti attrezzi. Father Brown si sforzava, tuttavia, di trarne un esiguo conforto; dicendo che lo svegliava sempre in tempo per la primissima Messa, ed era dunque qualcosa quasi della natura di un carillon. Dopotutto, diceva, era quasi altrettanto poetico che i cristiani fossero destati da martelli anziché da campane. In realtà, però, i lavori di costruzione gli davano un po’ sui nervi, per un’altra ragione. Poiché incombeva come una nuvola sul grattacielo a metà costruito la possibilità di una crisi sindacale, che i giornali si ostinavano caparbiamente a descrivere come uno Sciopero. In verità, se mai fosse accaduto, sarebbe stato una Serrata. Ma egli si tormentava non poco sul fatto che accadesse. E ci si potrebbe chiedere se il martellare metta più a dura prova l’attenzione perché può durare in eterno, o perché può cessare da un momento all’altro.

«Per pura questione di gusto e di fantasia», disse Father Brown, fissando l’edificio con i suoi occhiali da civetta, «mi piacerebbe piuttosto che si fermasse. Vorrei che tutte le case si fermassero finché hanno ancora su le impalcature. Sembra quasi un peccato che le case vengano mai finite. Hanno un’aria così fresca e piena di speranza con tutta quella fatata filigrana di legno bianco, tutte chiare e luminose al sole; e un uomo troppo spesso finisce una casa soltanto trasformandola in una tomba.»

Mentre si voltava dall’oggetto del suo scrutinio, per poco non urtò un uomo che si era appena precipitato attraverso la strada verso di lui. Era un uomo che conosceva vagamente, ma abbastanza da considerarlo (date le circostanze) una sorta di uccello del malaugurio. Il signor Mastyk era un uomo tozzo dalla testa quadrata che sembrava a malapena europea, vestito con un pesante dandismo che pareva un po’ troppo consapevolmente europeizzato. Ma Brown lo aveva visto di recente parlare con il giovane Sand della ditta di costruzioni; e la cosa non gli piaceva. Quel Mastyk era il capo di un’organizzazione piuttosto nuova nella politica industriale inglese; prodotta dagli estremi di entrambe le parti; un vero e proprio esercito di manodopera non appartenente al sindacato e in gran parte straniera, affittata a squadre a varie ditte; ed evidentemente si aggirava lì nella speranza di affittarla a questa. In breve, poteva escogitare qualche modo di scavalcare con l’astuzia il Sindacato operaio e inondare i cantieri di crumiri. Father Brown era stato trascinato in alcuni dei dibattiti, essendo in un certo senso chiamato in causa da entrambe le parti. E poiché i Capitalisti riferivano tutti che, per loro certa conoscenza, egli era un bolscevico; e poiché i bolscevichi testimoniavano tutti che egli era un reazionario rigidamente attaccato alle ideologie borghesi, se ne può dedurre che diceva una certa quantità di cose sensate senza alcun effetto apprezzabile su chicchessia. La notizia portata dal signor Mastyk, tuttavia, era tale da strappare tutti dal solco consueto della disputa.

«Vogliono che lei venga subito laggiù», disse il signor Mastyk, in un inglese dall’accento maldestro. «C’è una minaccia di omicidio.»

Father Brown seguì la sua guida in silenzio su per varie scale e scalette fino a una piattaforma dell’edificio incompiuto, sulla quale erano raggruppate le figure più o meno familiari dei capi dell’impresa edile. Comprendevano perfino colui che un tempo ne era stato il capo; benché quel capo fosse da qualche tempo piuttosto un capo tra le nuvole. Era per lo meno un capo cinto da una corona, che lo nascondeva alla vista umana come una nuvola. Lord Stanes, in altre parole, non solo si era ritirato dagli affari, ma era stato assunto nella Camera dei Lord ed era scomparso. Le sue rare ricomparse erano languide e alquanto tetre; ma questa, in concomitanza con quella di Mastyk, appariva non di meno minacciosa. Lord Stanes era un uomo magro, dalla testa allungata e dagli occhi infossati, con radissimi capelli biondi che sfumavano nella calvizie; ed era la persona più evasiva che il prete avesse mai incontrato. Era impareggiabile nell’autentico talento oxoniense di dire: «Senza dubbio avete ragione», in modo da suonare come: «Senza dubbio credete di aver ragione», oppure di limitarsi a osservare: «Lo credete?» così da sottintendere l’acida aggiunta: «Come no». Ma Father Brown immaginava che l’uomo non fosse soltanto annoiato, bensì lievemente inasprito, sebbene fosse difficile indovinare se per essere stato chiamato giù dall’Olimpo a dirimere simili beghe commerciali, o semplicemente per non averne più realmente il controllo.

Nel complesso, Father Brown preferiva piuttosto il gruppo più borghese dei soci. Sir Hubert Sand e suo nipote Henry; benché dubitasse in cuor suo che avessero davvero molte ideologie. È vero, Sir Hubert Sand aveva ottenuto una notevole celebrità sui giornali; sia come mecenate dello sport sia come patriota in molte crisi durante e dopo la Grande Guerra. Aveva riportato onori notevoli in Francia, per un uomo della sua età, ed era stato poi presentato come un trionfante capitano d’industria capace di superare le difficoltà tra gli operai delle munizioni. Lo avevano chiamato un Uomo Forte; ma non era colpa sua. Era in effetti un inglese massiccio e cordiale; un gran nuotatore; un buon possidente di campagna; un ammirevole colonnello dilettante. Anzi, qualcosa che si può solo definire un’impronta militare pervadeva il suo aspetto. Stava ingrassando, ma teneva le spalle indietro; i capelli ricci e i baffi erano ancora castani mentre i colori del volto erano già in certa misura appassiti e sbiaditi. Il nipote era un giovanotto robusto del tipo che spinge, o meglio che spintona con le spalle, con una testa relativamente piccola protesa in avanti su un collo tozzo, come se andasse alle cose a testa bassa; un gesto reso in qualche modo alquanto bizzarro e fanciullesco dal pince-nez in bilico sul suo pugnace naso a patata.

Father Brown had looked at all these things before; and at that moment everybody was looking at something entirely new. In the centre of the wood - work there was nailed up a large loose flapping piece of paper on which something was scrawled in crude and almost crazy capital letters, as if the writer were either almost illiterate or were affecting or parodying illiteracy. The words actually ran: ‘The Council of the Workers warns Hubert Sand that he will lower wages and lock out workmen at his peril. If the notices go out tomorrow, he will be dead by the justice of the people.’

Lord Stanes was just stepping back from his examination of the paper, and, looking across at his partner, he said with rather a curious intonation: ‘Well, it’s you they want to murder. Evidently I’m not considered worth murdering.’

One of those still electric shocks of fancy that sometimes thrilled Father Brown’s mind in an almost meaningless way shot through him at that particular instant. He had a queer notion that the man who was speaking could not now be murdered, because he was already dead. It was, he cheerfully admitted, a perfectly senseless idea. But there was something that always gave him the creeps about the cold disenchanted detachment of the noble senior partner; about his cadaverous colour and inhospitable eyes. ‘The fellow,’ he thought in the same perverse mood, ‘has green eyes and looks as if he had green blood.’

Anyhow, it was certain that Sir Hubert Sand had not got green blood. His blood, which was red enough in every sense, was creeping up into his withered or weather - beaten cheeks with all the warm fullness of life that belongs to the natural and innocent indignation of the good - natured.

‘In all my life,’ he said, in a strong voice and yet shakily, ‘I have never had such a thing said or done about me. I may have differed - ’

‘We can none of us differ about this,’ struck in his nephew impetuously. ‘I’ve tried to get on with them, but this is a bit too thick.’

‘You don’t really think,’ began Father Brown, ‘that your workmen - ’

‘I say we may have differed,’ said old Sand, still a little tremulously, ‘God knows I never like the idea of threatening English workmen with cheaper labour - ’

‘We none of us liked it,’ said the young man, ‘but if I know you, uncle, this has about settled it.’

Then after a pause he added, ‘I suppose, as you say, we did disagree about details; but as to real policy - ’

‘My dear fellow,’ said his uncle, comfortably. ‘I hoped there would never be any real disagreement.’ From which anybody who understands the English nation may rightly infer that there had been very considerable disagreement. Indeed the uncle and nephew differed almost as much as an Englishman and an American. The uncle had the English ideal of getting outside the business, and setting up a sort of an alibi as a country gentleman. The nephew had the American ideal of getting inside the business; of getting inside the very mechanism like a mechanic. And, indeed, he had worked with most of the mechanics and was familiar with most of the processes and tricks of the trade. And he was American again, in the fact that he did this partly as an employer to keep his men up to the mark, but in some vague way also as an equal, or at least with a pride in showing himself also as a worker. For this reason he had often appeared almost as a representative of the workers, on technical points which were a hundred miles away from his uncle’s popular eminence in politics or sport. The memory of those many occasions, when young Henry had practically come out of the workshop in his shirt - sleeves, to demand some concession about the conditions of the work, lent a peculiar force and even violence to his present reaction the other way.

‘Well, they’ve damned - well locked themselves out this time,’ he cried. ‘After a threat like that there’s simply nothing left but to defy them. There’s nothing left but to sack them all now; instanter; on the spot. Otherwise we’ll be the laughing - stock of the world.’

Old Sand frowned with equal indignation, but began slowly: ‘I shall be very much criticized - ’

‘Criticized!’ cried the young man shrilly. ‘Criticized if you defy a threat of murder! Have you any notion how you’ll be criticized if you don’t defy it? Won’t you enjoy the headlines? “Great Capitalist Terrorized” - “Employer Yields to Murder Threat.”

‘Particularly,’ said Lord Stanes, with something faintly unpleasant in his tone. ‘Particularly when he has been in so many headlines already as “The Strong Man of Steel - Building.” ’

Sand had gone very red again and his voice came thickly from under his thick moustache. ‘Of course you’re right there. If these brutes think I’m afraid - ’

At this point there was an interruption in the conversation of the group; and a slim young man came towards them swiftly. The first notable thing about him was that he was one of those whom men, and women too, think are just a little too nice - looking to look nice. He had beautiful dark curly hair and a silken moustache and he spoke like a gentleman, but with almost too refined and exactly modulated an accent. Father Brown knew him at once as Rupert Rae, the secretary of Sir Hubert, whom he had often seen pottering about in Sir Hubert’s house; but never with such impatience in his movements or such a wrinkle on his brow.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said to his employer, ‘but there’s a man been hanging about over there. I’ve done my best to get rid of him. He’s only got a letter, but he swears he must give it to you personally.’

‘You mean he went first to my house?’ said Sand, glancing swiftly at his secretary. ‘I suppose you’ve been there all the morning.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Rupert Rae.

There was a short silence; and then Sir Hubert Sand curtly intimated that the man had better be brought along; and the man duly appeared.

Father Brown aveva già osservato tutte queste cose; e in quel momento tutti stavano guardando qualcosa di interamente nuovo. Al centro della struttura in legno era inchiodato un ampio foglio di carta sciolto e svolazzante, sul quale qualcosa era stato scarabocchiato in rozze e quasi folli lettere maiuscole, come se lo scrivente fosse quasi analfabeta oppure fingesse o parodiasse l’analfabetismo. Le parole recitavano precisamente: «Il Consiglio dei Lavoratori avverte Hubert Sand che abbasserà i salari e serrerà fuori gli operai a suo rischio e pericolo. Se domani usciranno gli avvisi, egli sarà messo a morte dalla giustizia del popolo.»

Lord Stanes stava proprio arretrando dal suo esame del foglio e, guardando dall’altra parte verso il suo socio, disse con un’intonazione piuttosto curiosa: «Beh, è lei che vogliono assassinare. Evidentemente io non sono ritenuto degno d’essere assassinato.»

Una di quelle scosse ancora elettriche della fantasia che talvolta attraversavano la mente di Father Brown in modo quasi privo di senso lo percorse in quel preciso istante. Ebbe la strana idea che l’uomo che stava parlando non potesse ora essere assassinato, perché era già morto. Era, ammise allegramente, un’idea perfettamente insensata. Ma c’era qualcosa che gli faceva sempre venire i brividi nel freddo distacco disincantato del nobile socio anziano; nel suo colorito cadaverico e nei suoi occhi inospitali. «Quel tale», pensò nel medesimo umore perverso, «ha occhi verdi e sembra avere sangue verde.»

A ogni modo, era certo che Sir Hubert Sand non avesse sangue verde. Il suo sangue, che era rosso a sufficienza in ogni senso, gli stava salendo verso le guance avvizzite o segnate dalle intemperie con tutta la calda pienezza di vita che appartiene all’indignazione naturale e innocente del bonaccione.

«In tutta la mia vita», disse, con voce forte eppure malferma, «non mi era mai stata detta o fatta una cosa simile. Posso aver dissentito…»

«Su questo nessuno di noi può dissentire», irruppe impetuosamente il nipote. «Ho cercato di andare d’accordo con loro, ma questo è un po’ troppo grosso.»

«Non penserà mica davvero», cominciò Father Brown, «che i suoi operai…»

«Dico che possiamo aver dissentito», disse il vecchio Sand, ancora un po’ tremulo, «Dio sa se mi è mai piaciuta l’idea di minacciare operai inglesi con manodopera più a buon mercato…»

«A nessuno di noi piaceva», disse il giovane, «ma se ti conosco, zio, questo ha praticamente deciso la faccenda.»

Poi, dopo una pausa, aggiunse: «Immagino, come dici tu, che dissentissimo sui dettagli; ma quanto alla politica vera e propria…»

«Mio caro ragazzo», disse lo zio, comodamente. «Speravo che non ci sarebbe mai stato alcun vero disaccordo.» Dal che chiunque conosca la nazione inglese può giustamente dedurre che c’era stato un disaccordo assai considerevole. In effetti lo zio e il nipote differivano quasi quanto un inglese e un americano. Lo zio aveva l’ideale inglese di starsene fuori dagli affari e di costruirsi una sorta di alibi come gentiluomo di campagna. Il nipote aveva l’ideale americano di entrare dentro gli affari; di entrare nel meccanismo stesso come un meccanico. E, in effetti, aveva lavorato con la maggior parte dei meccanici ed era pratico della maggior parte dei procedimenti e dei trucchi del mestiere. Ed era di nuovo americano nel fatto che faceva questo in parte come datore di lavoro per tenere i suoi uomini all’altezza, ma in qualche modo vago anche come un pari, o per lo meno con l’orgoglio di mostrarsi anch’egli un lavoratore. Per questa ragione era spesso apparso quasi come un rappresentante degli operai, su questioni tecniche che erano a cento miglia di distanza dall’eminenza popolare dello zio nella politica o nello sport. Il ricordo di quelle molte occasioni, in cui il giovane Henry era praticamente uscito dall’officina in maniche di camicia per reclamare qualche concessione sulle condizioni di lavoro, conferiva una forza peculiare e persino una violenza alla sua presente reazione in senso opposto.

«Ebbene, si sono maledettamente ben serrati fuori da soli questa volta», gridò. «Dopo una minaccia simile non resta semplicemente altro che sfidarli. Non resta altro che licenziarli tutti, adesso; all’istante; su due piedi. Altrimenti saremo lo zimbello del mondo.»

Il vecchio Sand aggrottò la fronte con pari indignazione, ma cominciò lentamente: «Sarò criticato moltissimo…»

«Criticato!» gridò il giovane con voce stridula. «Criticato se sfidi una minaccia di omicidio! Hai idea di come sarai criticato se non la sfidi? Non ti godrai i titoloni? “Grande Capitalista Terrorizzato” — “Datore di Lavoro Cede alla Minaccia di Omicidio.”»

«Particolarmente», disse Lord Stanes, con qualcosa di lievemente sgradevole nel tono. «Particolarmente ora che è già comparso in tanti titoloni come “L’Uomo Forte dell’Edilizia in Acciaio.”»

Sand era tornato molto rosso e la voce gli usciva impastata da sotto i folti baffi. «Naturalmente lì hai ragione. Se questi bruti pensano che io abbia paura…»

A questo punto vi fu un’interruzione nella conversazione del gruppo; e un giovane snello venne verso di loro rapidamente. La prima cosa notevole in lui era che apparteneva a quelli che gli uomini, e anche le donne, giudicano appena un po’ troppo di bell’aspetto per apparire belli davvero. Aveva bei capelli scuri e ricci e un baffo di seta, e parlava come un gentiluomo, ma con un accento fin troppo raffinato ed esattamente modulato. Father Brown lo riconobbe subito come Rupert Rae, il segretario di Sir Hubert, che aveva spesso visto gironzolare per la casa di Sir Hubert; ma mai con tanta impazienza nei movimenti o con una tale ruga sulla fronte.

«Mi dispiace, signore», disse al suo datore di lavoro, «ma c’è un uomo che si aggira laggiù. Ho fatto del mio meglio per sbarazzarmene. Ha soltanto una lettera, ma giura di doverla consegnare a lei personalmente.»

«Vuoi dire che è andato prima alla mia casa?» disse Sand, lanciando una rapida occhiata al suo segretario. «Immagino che tu sia stato là tutta la mattina.»

«Sì, signore», disse il signor Rupert Rae.

Vi fu un breve silenzio; e poi Sir Hubert Sand fece seccamente intendere che era meglio far venire l’uomo; e l’uomo comparve puntualmente.

Nobody, not even the least fastidious lady, would have said that the newcomer was too nice - looking. He had very large ears and a face like a frog, and he stared before him with an almost ghastly fixity, which Father Brown attributed to his having a glass eye. In fact, his fancy was tempted to equip the man with two glass eyes; with so glassy a stare did he contemplate the company. But the priest’s experience, as distinct from his fancy, was able to suggest several natural causes for that unnatural waxwork glare; one of them being an abuse of the divine gift of fermented liquor. The man was short and shabby and carried a large bowler hat in one hand and a large sealed letter in the other.

Sir Hubert Sand looked at him; and then said quietly enough, but in a voice that somehow seemed curiously small, coming out of the fullness of his bodily presence: ‘Oh - it’s you.’

He held out his hand for the letter; and then looked around apologetically, with poised finger, before ripping it open and reading it. When he had read it, he stuffed it into his inside pocket and said hastily and a little harshly: ‘Well, I suppose all this business is over, as you say. No more negotiations possible now; we couldn’t pay the wages they want anyhow. But I shall want to see you again, Henry, about

• about winding things up generally.’

‘All right,’ said Henry, a little sulkily perhaps, as if he would have preferred to wind them up by himself. ‘I shall be up in number 188 after lunch; got to know how far they’ve got up there.’

The man with the glass eye, if it was a glass eye, stumped stiffly away; and the eye of Father Brown (which was by no means a glass eye) followed him thoughtfully as he threaded his way through the ladders and disappeared into the street.

It was on the following morning that Father Brown had the unusual experience of over - sleeping himself; or at least of starting from sleep with a subjective conviction that he must be late. This was partly due to his remembering, as a man may remember a dream, the fact of having been half - awakened at a more regular hour and fallen asleep again; a common enough occurrence with most of us, but a very uncommon occurrence with Father Brown. And he was afterwards oddly convinced, with that mystic side of him which was normally turned away from the world, that in that detached dark islet of dreamland, between the two wakings, there lay like buried treasure the truth of this tale.

As it was, he jumped up with great promptitude, plunged into his clothes, seized his big knobby umbrella and bustled out into the street, where the bleak white morning was breaking like splintered ice about the huge black building facing him. He was surprised to find that the streets shone almost empty in the cold crystalline light; the very look of it told him it could hardly be so late as he had feared. Then suddenly the stillness was cloven by the arrowlike swiftness of a long grey car which halted before the big deserted flats. Lord Stanes unfolded himself from within and approached the door, carrying (rather languidly) two large suitcases. At the same moment the door opened, and somebody seemed to step back instead of stepping out into the street. Stanes called twice to the man within, before that person seemed to complete his original gesture by coming out on to the doorstep; then the two held a brief colloquy, ending in the nobleman carrying his suitcases upstairs, and the other coming out into full daylight and revealing the heavy shoulders and peering head of young Henry Sand.

Father Brown made no more of this rather odd meeting, until two days later the young man drove up in his own car, and implored the priest to enter it. ‘Something awful has happened,’ he said, ‘and I’d rather talk to you than Stanes. You know Stanes arrived the other day with some mad idea of camping in one of the flats that’s just finished. That’s why I had to go there early and open the door to him. But all that will keep. I want you to come up to my uncle’s place at once.’

‘Is he ill?’ inquired the priest quickly.

‘I think he’s dead,’ answered the nephew.

‘What do you mean by saying you think he’s dead?’ asked Father Brown a little briskly. ‘Have you got a doctor?’

‘No,’ answered the other. ‘I haven’t got a doctor or a patient either …It’s no good calling in doctors to examine the body; because the body has run away. But I’m afraid I know where it has run to … the truth is

• we kept it dark for two days; but he’s disappeared.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better,’ said Father Brown mildly, ‘if you told me what has really happened from the beginning?’

‘I know,’ answered Henry Sand; ‘it’s an infernal shame to talk flippantly like this about the poor old boy; but people get like that when they’re rattled. I’m not much good at hiding things; the long and the short of it is - well, I won’t tell you the long of it now. It’s what some people would call rather a long shot; shooting suspicions at random and so on. But the short of it is that my unfortunate uncle has committed suicide.’

They were by this time skimming along in the car through the last fringes of the town and the first fringes of the forest and park beyond it; the lodge gates of Sir Hubert Sand’s small estate were about a half mile farther on amid the thickening throng of the beeches. The estate consisted chiefly of a small park and a large ornamental garden, which descended in terraces of a certain classical pomp to the very edge of the chief river of the district. As soon as they arrived at the house, Henry took the priest somewhat hastily through the old Georgian rooms and out upon the other side; where they silently descended the slope, a rather steep slope embanked with flowers, from which they could see the pale river spread out before them almost as flat as in a bird’s - eye view. They were just turning the corner of the path under an enormous classical urn crowned with a somewhat incongruous garland of geraniums, when Father Brown saw a movement in the bushes and thin trees just below him, that seemed as swift as a movement of startled birds.

Nessuno, neppure la dama meno schizzinosa, avrebbe detto che il nuovo venuto fosse troppo di bell’aspetto. Aveva orecchie molto grandi e una faccia da rana, e fissava davanti a sé con una fissità quasi spettrale, che Father Brown attribuì al fatto che avesse un occhio di vetro. Anzi, la sua fantasia era tentata di dotare l’uomo di due occhi di vetro; con un’aria tanto vitrea contemplava la compagnia. Ma l’esperienza del prete, distinta dalla sua fantasia, era in grado di suggerire diverse cause naturali per quel bagliore innaturale da figura di cera; una delle quali era un abuso del divino dono del liquore fermentato. L’uomo era basso e malandato e reggeva in una mano una grande bombetta e nell’altra una grande lettera sigillata.

Sir Hubert Sand lo guardò; e poi disse in tono abbastanza tranquillo, ma con una voce che in qualche modo pareva curiosamente esile, uscendo dalla pienezza della sua presenza corporea: «Oh… siete voi.»

Tese la mano per la lettera; e poi si guardò intorno con aria di scusa, il dito sospeso, prima di strapparne l’apertura e leggerla. Quando l’ebbe letta, se la cacciò nella tasca interna e disse in fretta e un po’ aspramente: «Beh, suppongo che tutta questa faccenda sia finita, come dici tu. Nessuna trattativa è più possibile ormai; non potremmo comunque pagare i salari che chiedono. Ma vorrò rivederti, Henry, a proposito di… a proposito di come chiudere le cose in generale.»

«D’accordo», disse Henry, forse un po’ imbronciato, come se avrebbe preferito sbrigarle da solo. «Sarò su al numero 188 dopo pranzo; devo sapere fin dove sono arrivati lassù.»

L’uomo con l’occhio di vetro, se era un occhio di vetro, se ne andò rigidamente a passi pesanti; e l’occhio di Father Brown (che non era affatto un occhio di vetro) lo seguì pensieroso mentre si faceva strada tra le scalette e scompariva nella via.

Fu la mattina seguente che Father Brown ebbe l’insolita esperienza di dormire oltre l’ora; o per lo meno di destarsi dal sonno con la soggettiva convinzione di essere in ritardo. Ciò era dovuto in parte al suo ricordare, come un uomo può ricordare un sogno, il fatto di essersi mezzo svegliato a un’ora più regolare e di essersi riaddormentato; un’evenienza abbastanza comune per la maggior parte di noi, ma un’evenienza assai insolita per Father Brown. E in seguito fu stranamente convinto, con quel lato mistico di sé che era normalmente rivolto lontano dal mondo, che in quell’isolotto oscuro e distaccato del regno dei sogni, tra i due risvegli, giacesse come un tesoro sepolto la verità di questa storia.

Come stavano le cose, balzò in piedi con gran prontezza, si infilò gli abiti, afferrò il suo grosso ombrello nodoso e si precipitò nella via, dove la squallida mattina bianca stava spuntando come ghiaccio scheggiato intorno all’enorme edificio nero che gli stava di fronte. Fu sorpreso di scoprire che le strade risplendevano quasi deserte nella fredda luce cristallina; il loro stesso aspetto gli disse che difficilmente poteva essere tardi come aveva temuto. Poi improvvisamente la quiete fu spaccata dalla rapidità simile a una freccia di una lunga automobile grigia che si arrestò davanti ai grandi appartamenti deserti. Lord Stanes si dispiegò dall’interno e si avvicinò alla porta, portando (piuttosto languidamente) due grandi valigie. Nello stesso momento la porta si aprì, e qualcuno parve indietreggiare invece di uscire nella strada. Stanes chiamò due volte l’uomo all’interno, prima che quella persona sembrasse completare il suo gesto originario uscendo sulla soglia; poi i due tennero un breve colloquio, che si concluse con il nobiluomo che portava le sue valigie di sopra, e l’altro che usciva alla piena luce del giorno rivelando le pesanti spalle e la testa scrutatrice del giovane Henry Sand.

Father Brown non diede peso a questo incontro piuttosto strano, finché due giorni più tardi il giovane arrivò con la propria automobile e implorò il prete di salirvi. «È successo qualcosa di terribile», disse, «e preferirei parlarne con lei piuttosto che con Stanes. Sa, Stanes è arrivato l’altro giorno con la folle idea di accamparsi in uno degli appartamenti appena finiti. Ecco perché ho dovuto andare là presto e aprirgli la porta. Ma tutto questo può aspettare. Voglio che venga subito su, a casa di mio zio.»

«È malato?» domandò il prete rapidamente.

«Credo che sia morto», rispose il nipote.

«Che cosa intende dire quando dice che crede che sia morto?» chiese Father Brown un po’ bruscamente. «Ha un medico?»

«No», rispose l’altro. «Non ho né un medico né un paziente… Non serve a nulla chiamare i medici a esaminare il corpo; perché il corpo è fuggito. Ma temo di sapere dove è fuggito… la verità è che… l’abbiamo tenuto nascosto per due giorni; ma è scomparso.»

«Non sarebbe meglio», disse Father Brown mitemente, «se mi raccontasse che cosa è realmente accaduto dal principio?»

«Lo so», rispose Henry Sand; «è una vergogna infernale parlare con tanta leggerezza del povero vecchio; ma la gente diventa così quando è sconvolta. Non sono granché bravo a nascondere le cose; il lungo e il breve della faccenda è che… beh, il lungo non glielo dirò adesso. È ciò che qualcuno definirebbe piuttosto un tiro azzardato; scagliare sospetti a casaccio e via dicendo. Ma il breve è che il mio sventurato zio ha commesso il suicidio.»

Ormai a questo punto sfrecciavano lungo la strada in automobile attraverso gli ultimi lembi della città e i primi lembi della foresta e del parco al di là di essa; i cancelli della portineria della piccola tenuta di Sir Hubert Sand si trovavano circa mezzo miglio più avanti in mezzo alla ressa infittita dei faggi. La tenuta consisteva principalmente in un piccolo parco e in un grande giardino ornamentale, che digradava in terrazze di un certo classico sfarzo fino all’orlo stesso del principale fiume del distretto. Non appena giunsero alla casa, Henry condusse il prete un po’ frettolosamente attraverso le vecchie stanze georgiane e fuori dall’altro lato; dove discesero in silenzio il pendio, un pendio piuttosto ripido arginato di fiori, dal quale potevano vedere il pallido fiume disteso davanti a loro quasi piatto come in una veduta a volo d’uccello. Stavano proprio svoltando l’angolo del sentiero sotto un’enorme urna classica coronata da una ghirlanda di gerani alquanto incongrua, quando Father Brown vide un movimento nei cespugli e negli alberi radi appena sotto di lui, che parve rapido come il movimento di uccelli spaventati.

In the tangle of thin trees by the river two figures seemed to divide or scatter; one of them glided swiftly into the shadows and the other came forward to face them; bringing them to a halt and an abrupt and rather unaccountable silence. Then Henry Sand said in his heavy way: ‘I think you know Father Brown … Lady Sand.’

Father Brown did know her; but at that moment he might almost have said that he did not know her. The pallor and constriction of her face was like a mask of tragedy; she was much younger than her husband, but at that moment she looked somehow older than everything in that old house and garden. And the priest remembered, with a subconscious thrill, that she was indeed older in type and lineage and was the true possessor of the place. For her own family had owned it as impoverished aristocrats, before she had restored its fortunes by marrying a successful business man. As she stood there, she might have been a family picture, or even a family ghost. Her pale face was of that pointed yet oval type seen in some old pictures of Mary Queen of Scots; and its expression seemed almost to go beyond the natural unnaturalness of a situation, in which her husband had vanished under suspicion of suicide. Father Brown, with the same subconscious movement of the mind, wondered who it was with whom she had been talking among the trees.

‘I suppose you know all this dreadful news,’ she said, with a comfortless composure. ‘Poor Hubert must have broken down under all this revolutionary persecution, and been just maddened into taking his own life. I don’t know whether you can do anything; or whether these horrible Bolsheviks can be made responsible for hounding him to death.’

‘I am terribly distressed, Lady Sand,’ said Father Brown. ‘And still, I must own, a little bewildered. You speak of persecution; do you think that anybody could hound him to death merely by pinning up that paper on the wall?’

‘I fancy,’ answered the lady, with a darkening brow, ‘that there were other persecutions besides the paper.’

‘It shows what mistakes one may make,’ said the priest sadly. ‘I never should have thought he would be so illogical as to die in order to avoid death.’

‘I know,’ she answered, gazing at him gravely. ‘I should never have believed it, if it hadn’t been written with his own hand.’

‘What?’ cried Father Brown, with a little jump like a rabbit that has been shot at.

‘Yes,’ said Lady Sand calmly. ‘He left a confession of suicide; so I fear there is no doubt about it.’ And she passed on up the slope alone, with all the inviolable isolation of the family ghost.

The spectacles of Father Brown were turned in mute inquiry to the eyeglasses of Mr Henry Sand. And the latter gentleman, after an instant’s hesitation, spoke again in his rather blind and plunging fashion: ‘Yes, you see, it seems pretty clear now what he did. He was always a great swimmer and used to come down in his dressing - gown every morning for a dip in the river. Well, he came down as usual, and left his dressing - gown on the bank; it’s lying there still. But he also left a message saying he was going for his last swim and then death, or something like that.’

‘Where did he leave the message?’ asked Father Brown.

‘He scrawled it on that tree there, overhanging the water, I suppose the last thing he took hold of; just below where the dressing - gown’s lying. Come and see for yourself.’

Father Brown ran down the last short slope to the shore and peered under the hanging tree, whose plumes were almost dipping in the stream. Sure enough, he saw on the smooth bark the words scratched conspicuously and unmistakably: ‘One more swim and then drowning. Good - bye. Hubert Sand.’ Father Brown’s gaze travelled slowly up the bank till it rested on a gorgeous rag of raiment, all red and yellow with gilded tassels. It was the dressing - gown and the priest picked it up and began to turn it over. Almost as he did so he was conscious that a figure had flashed across his field of vision; a tall dark figure that slipped from one clump of trees to another, as if following the trail of the vanishing lady. He had little doubt that it was the companion from whom she had lately parted. He had still less doubt that it was the dead man’s secretary, Mr Rupert Rae.

‘Of course, it might be a final afterthought to leave the message,’ said Father Brown, without looking up, his eye riveted on the red and gold garment. ‘We’ve all heard of love - messages written on trees; and I suppose there might be death - messages written on trees too.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t have anything in the pockets of his dressing - gown, I suppose,’ said young Sand. ‘And a man might naturally scratch his message on a tree if he had no pens, ink or paper.’

‘Sounds like French exercises,’ said the priest dismally. ‘But I wasn’t thinking of that.’ Then, after a silence, he said in a rather altered voice:

‘To tell the truth, I was thinking whether a man might not naturally scratch his message on a tree, even if he had stacks of pens, and quarts of ink, and reams of paper.’

Henry was looking at him with a rather startled air, his eyeglasses crooked on his pug - nose. ‘And what do you mean by that?’ he asked sharply.

‘Well,’ said Father Brown slowly, ‘I don’t exactly mean that postmen will carry letters in the form of logs, or that you will ever drop a line to a friend by putting a postage stamp on a pinetree. It would have to be a particular sort of position - in fact, it would have to be a particular sort of person, who really preferred this sort of arboreal correspondence. But, given the position and the person, I repeat what I said. He would still write on a tree, as the song says, if all the world were paper and all the sea were ink; if that river flowed with everlasting ink or all these woods were a forest of quills and fountain

• pens.’

Nell’intrico di alberi radi presso il fiume due figure parvero dividersi o disperdersi; una di esse scivolò rapida nell’ombra e l’altra si fece avanti a fronteggiarli; costringendoli a fermarsi e a un brusco e piuttosto inspiegabile silenzio. Poi Henry Sand disse nel suo modo pesante: «Credo che lei conosca Father Brown… Lady Sand.»

Father Brown la conosceva davvero; ma in quel momento avrebbe quasi potuto dire di non conoscerla. Il pallore e la contrazione del suo volto erano come una maschera di tragedia; era molto più giovane del marito, ma in quel momento appariva in qualche modo più vecchia di ogni cosa in quella vecchia casa e in quel giardino. E il prete rammentò, con un fremito subconscio, che ella era davvero più antica per tipo e per lignaggio ed era la vera padrona del luogo. Poiché la sua famiglia lo aveva posseduto come aristocratici impoveriti, prima che ella ne risollevasse le fortune sposando un uomo d’affari di successo. Così come stava lì, avrebbe potuto essere un ritratto di famiglia, o persino un fantasma di famiglia. Il suo volto pallido era di quel tipo affilato eppure ovale che si vede in certi antichi ritratti di Maria regina di Scozia; e la sua espressione pareva quasi andare oltre la naturale innaturalezza di una situazione in cui il marito era svanito sotto il sospetto di suicidio. Father Brown, con il medesimo moto subconscio della mente, si chiese chi fosse colui con cui ella aveva parlato tra gli alberi.

«Suppongo che lei conosca tutte queste terribili notizie», disse, con una sconsolata compostezza. «Il povero Hubert deve aver ceduto sotto tutta questa persecuzione rivoluzionaria, ed essere stato spinto alla follia fino a togliersi la vita. Non so se lei possa fare qualcosa; o se questi orribili bolscevichi possano essere ritenuti responsabili di averlo braccato fino alla morte.»

«Sono terribilmente addolorato, Lady Sand», disse Father Brown. «E tuttavia, devo confessarlo, un po’ sconcertato. Lei parla di persecuzione; crede davvero che qualcuno potesse braccarlo fino alla morte semplicemente affiggendo quel foglio al muro?»

«Immagino», rispose la dama, con la fronte che si oscurava, «che vi fossero altre persecuzioni oltre al foglio.»

«Mostra quali errori si possano commettere», disse il prete tristemente. «Non avrei mai pensato che sarebbe stato tanto illogico da morire per evitare la morte.»

«Lo so», rispose lei, fissandolo gravemente. «Non l’avrei mai creduto, se non fosse stato scritto di suo pugno.»

«Cosa?» gridò Father Brown, con un piccolo sussulto come un coniglio a cui abbiano sparato.

«Sì», disse Lady Sand con calma. «Ha lasciato una confessione di suicidio; sicché temo che non vi sia dubbio al riguardo.» E proseguì su per il pendio da sola, con tutto l’inviolabile isolamento del fantasma di famiglia.

Gli occhiali di Father Brown si volsero in muta interrogazione verso le lenti del signor Henry Sand. E quest’ultimo signore, dopo un istante di esitazione, parlò di nuovo nel suo modo piuttosto cieco e avventato: «Sì, vede, ora sembra abbastanza chiaro quel che ha fatto. È sempre stato un gran nuotatore e soleva scendere in vestaglia ogni mattina per un tuffo nel fiume. Ebbene, scese come al solito e lasciò la vestaglia sulla riva; è ancora lì per terra. Ma lasciò anche un messaggio in cui diceva che andava a fare la sua ultima nuotata e poi la morte, o qualcosa del genere.»

«Dove ha lasciato il messaggio?» chiese Father Brown.

«Lo ha scarabocchiato su quell’albero là, sospeso sull’acqua, immagino l’ultima cosa a cui si è aggrappato; proprio sotto il punto dove giace la vestaglia. Venga a vedere di persona.»

Father Brown corse giù per l’ultimo breve pendio fino alla sponda e scrutò sotto l’albero pendente, le cui fronde quasi si immergevano nella corrente. Difatti, vide sulla liscia corteccia le parole graffiate in modo cospicuo e inequivocabile: «Un’altra nuotata e poi l’annegamento. Addio. Hubert Sand.» Lo sguardo di Father Brown risalì lentamente la sponda finché non si posò su uno splendido cencio di veste, tutto rosso e giallo con nappe dorate. Era la vestaglia, e il prete la raccolse e cominciò a rivoltarla. Quasi nel farlo si accorse che una figura aveva guizzato attraverso il suo campo visivo; una figura alta e scura che sgusciava da un gruppo d’alberi all’altro, come seguendo la traccia della dama che scompariva. Aveva pochi dubbi che fosse il compagno da cui ella si era poco prima separata. Aveva un dubbio ancora minore che fosse il segretario del morto, il signor Rupert Rae.

«Naturalmente, potrebbe essere stato un ultimo ripensamento lasciare il messaggio», disse Father Brown, senza alzare lo sguardo, l’occhio inchiodato sull’indumento rosso e oro. «Abbiamo tutti sentito parlare di messaggi d’amore scritti sugli alberi; e suppongo che potrebbero esserci anche messaggi di morte scritti sugli alberi.»

«Beh, immagino che non avesse nulla nelle tasche della vestaglia», disse il giovane Sand. «E un uomo potrebbe naturalmente graffiare il suo messaggio su un albero se non aveva né penne, né inchiostro, né carta.»

«Sembrano esercizi di francese», disse il prete tristemente. «Ma non stavo pensando a quello.» Poi, dopo un silenzio, disse con voce alquanto alterata:

«A dire la verità, stavo pensando se un uomo non potrebbe naturalmente graffiare il suo messaggio su un albero, anche se avesse pile di penne, e litri d’inchiostro, e risme di carta.»

Henry lo guardava con aria piuttosto trasalita, gli occhiali storti sul naso a patata. «E che cosa intende con questo?» chiese seccamente.

«Beh», disse Father Brown lentamente, «non intendo esattamente che i postini porteranno lettere sotto forma di tronchi, o che lei manderà mai due righe a un amico appiccicando un francobollo su un pino. Dovrebbe trattarsi di un genere particolare di posizione; anzi, dovrebbe trattarsi di un genere particolare di persona, che preferisse davvero questa sorta di corrispondenza arborea. Ma, date la posizione e la persona, ripeto ciò che ho detto. Egli scriverebbe comunque su un albero, come dice la canzone, anche se tutto il mondo fosse carta e tutto il mare fosse inchiostro; se quel fiume scorresse d’inchiostro eterno o se tutti questi boschi fossero una foresta di penne d’oca e stilografiche.»

It was evident that Sand felt something creepy about the priest’s fanciful imagery; whether because he found it incomprehensible or because he was beginning to comprehend.

‘You see,’ said Father Brown, turning the dressing - gown over slowly as he spoke, ‘a man isn’t expected to write his very best handwriting when he chips it on a tree. And if the man were not the man, if I make myself clear - Hullo!’

He was looking down at the red dressing - gown, and it seemed for the moment as if some of the red had come off on his finger; but both the faces turned towards it were already a shade paler.

‘Blood!’ said Father Brown; and for the instant there was a deadly stillness save for the melodious noises of the river.

Henry Sand cleared his throat and nose with noises that were by no means melodious. Then he said rather hoarsely: ‘Whose blood?’

‘Oh, mine,’ said Father Brown; but he did not smile.

A moment after he said: ‘There was a pin in this thing and I pricked myself. But I don’t think you quite appreciate the point … the point of the pin, I do’; and he sucked his finger like a child.

‘You see,’ he said after another silence, ‘the gown was folded up and pinned together; nobody could have unfolded it - at least without scratching himself. In plain words, Hubert Sand never wore this dressing

• gown. Any more than Hubert Sand ever wrote on that tree. Or drowned himself in that river.’

The pince - nez tilted on Henry’s inquiring nose fell off with a click; but he was otherwise motionless, as if rigid with surprise.

‘Which brings us back,’ went on Father Brown cheerfully, ‘to somebody’s taste for writing his private correspondence on trees, like Hiawatha and his picture - writing. Sand had all the time there was, before drowning himself. Why didn’t he leave a note for his wife like a sane man? Or, shall we say … Why didn’t the Other Man leave a note for the wife like a sane man? Because he would have had to forge the husband’s handwriting; always a tricky thing now that experts are so nosey about it. But nobody can be expected to imitate even his own handwriting, let alone somebody else’s when he carves capital letters in the bark of a tree. This is not a suicide, Mr Sand. If it’s anything at all, it’s a murder.’

The bracken and bushes of the undergrowth snapped and crackled as the big young man rose out of them like a leviathan, and stood lowering, with his thick neck thrust forward.

‘I’m no good at hiding things,’ he said, ‘and I half - suspected something like this - expected it, you might say, for a long time. To tell the truth, I could hardly be civil to the fellow - to either of them, for that matter.’

‘What exactly do you mean?’ asked the priest, looking him gravely full in the face.

‘I mean,’ said Henry Sand, ‘that you have shown me the murder and I think I could show you the murderers.’

Father Brown was silent and the other went on rather jerkily.

‘You said people sometimes wrote love - messages on trees. Well, as a fact, there are some of them on that tree; there are two sort of monograms twisted together up there under the leaves - I suppose you know that Lady Sand was the heiress of this place long before she married; and she knew that damned dandy of a secretary even in those days. I guess they used to meet here and write their vows upon the trysting - tree. They seem to have used the trysting - tree for another purpose later on. Sentiment, no doubt, or economy.’

‘They must be very horrible people,’ said Father Brown.

‘Haven’t there been any horrible people in history or the police - news?’ demanded Sand with some excitement. ‘Haven’t there been lovers who made love seem more horrible than hate? Don’t you know about Bothwell and all the bloody legends of such lovers?’

‘I know the legend of Bothwell,’ answered the priest. ‘I also know it to be quite legendary. But of course it’s true that husbands have been sometimes put away like that. By the way, where was he put away? I mean, where did they hide the body?’

‘I suppose they drowned him, or threw him in the water when he was dead,’ snorted the young man impatiently.

Father Brown blinked thoughtfully and then said: ‘A river is a good place to hide an imaginary body. It’s a rotten bad place to hide a real

Era evidente che Sand provava qualcosa di raccapricciante di fronte alle fantasiose immagini del prete; se perché le trovava incomprensibili o perché cominciava a comprenderle.

«Vede», disse Father Brown, rivoltando lentamente la vestaglia mentre parlava, «non ci si aspetta che un uomo scriva con la sua migliore calligrafia quando la incide su un albero. E se l’uomo non fosse l’uomo, se mi spiego… Ehilà!»

Stava guardando la vestaglia rossa, e per un istante parve che un po’ del rosso gli si fosse staccato sul dito; ma entrambi i volti rivolti verso di essa erano già di una sfumatura più pallida.

«Sangue!» disse Father Brown; e per un istante vi fu un silenzio mortale salvo per i melodiosi rumori del fiume.

Henry Sand si schiarì la gola e il naso con rumori che non erano affatto melodiosi. Poi disse piuttosto rauco: «Sangue di chi?»

«Oh, mio», disse Father Brown; ma non sorrise.

Un momento dopo disse: «C’era uno spillo in questa cosa e mi sono punto. Ma non credo che lei colga bene il punto… il punto dello spillo, io sì»; e si succhiò il dito come un bambino.

«Vede», disse dopo un altro silenzio, «la vestaglia era ripiegata e fermata con uno spillo; nessuno avrebbe potuto dispiegarla, per lo meno senza pungersi. In parole povere, Hubert Sand non ha mai indossato questa vestaglia. Non più di quanto Hubert Sand abbia mai scritto su quell’albero. O si sia annegato in quel fiume.»

Il pince-nez inclinato sul naso indagatore di Henry cadde con uno scatto; ma per il resto egli rimase immobile, come irrigidito dalla sorpresa.

«Il che ci riporta», proseguì Father Brown allegramente, «al gusto di qualcuno per lo scrivere la propria corrispondenza privata sugli alberi, come Hiawatha e la sua scrittura per immagini. Sand aveva tutto il tempo che voleva, prima di annegarsi. Perché non ha lasciato un biglietto per sua moglie come una persona assennata? O, diciamo… Perché l’Altro Uomo non ha lasciato un biglietto per la moglie come una persona assennata? Perché avrebbe dovuto contraffare la calligrafia del marito; cosa sempre insidiosa ora che gli esperti sono così ficcanaso al riguardo. Ma non ci si può aspettare che qualcuno imiti persino la propria calligrafia, tanto meno quella di un altro, quando intaglia lettere maiuscole nella corteccia di un albero. Questo non è un suicidio, signor Sand. Se è qualcosa, è un omicidio.»

La felce e i cespugli del sottobosco scricchiolarono e crepitarono mentre il grosso giovane si levò da essi come un leviatano, e restò in piedi accigliato, col collo tozzo proteso in avanti.

«Non sono bravo a nascondere le cose», disse, «e sospettavo a metà qualcosa del genere… me l’aspettavo, si potrebbe dire, da molto tempo. A dire la verità, riuscivo a stento a essere cortese con quel tale… con entrambi, se è per questo.»

«Che cosa intende esattamente?» chiese il prete, guardandolo gravemente dritto in faccia.

«Intendo», disse Henry Sand, «che lei mi ha mostrato l’omicidio e io credo di poterle mostrare gli assassini.»

Father Brown tacque e l’altro proseguì piuttosto a scatti.

«Lei ha detto che la gente talvolta scriveva messaggi d’amore sugli alberi. Ebbene, di fatto, ce ne sono alcuni su quell’albero; ci sono due specie di monogrammi intrecciati insieme lassù sotto le foglie… suppongo lei sappia che Lady Sand era l’erede di questo luogo molto prima di sposarsi; e conosceva quel maledetto damerino di segretario già a quei tempi. Scommetto che si incontravano qui e scrivevano i loro voti sull’albero degli appuntamenti. Pare che in seguito abbiano usato l’albero degli appuntamenti per un altro scopo. Sentimento, senza dubbio, o economia.»

«Devono essere persone davvero orribili», disse Father Brown.

«Non ci sono forse state persone orribili nella storia o nella cronaca nera?» domandò Sand con una certa eccitazione. «Non ci sono forse stati amanti che hanno reso l’amore più orribile dell’odio? Non sa nulla di Bothwell e di tutte le sanguinose leggende di simili amanti?»

«Conosco la leggenda di Bothwell», rispose il prete. «So anche che è del tutto leggendaria. Ma naturalmente è vero che dei mariti sono stati talvolta tolti di mezzo così. A proposito, dove è stato tolto di mezzo lui? Voglio dire, dove hanno nascosto il corpo?»

«Suppongo che lo abbiano annegato, o gettato nell’acqua quand’era morto», sbuffò il giovane con impazienza.

Father Brown sbatté pensieroso le palpebre e poi disse: «Un fiume è un buon posto per nascondere un corpo immaginario. È un pessimo posto per nascondere un vero

one. I mean, it’s easy to say you’ve thrown it in, because it might be washed away to sea. But if you really did throw it in, it’s about a hundred to one it wouldn’t; the chances of it going ashore somewhere are enormous. I think they must have had a better scheme for hiding the body than that - or the body would have been found by now. And if there were any marks of violence - ’

‘Oh, bother hiding the body,’ said Henry, with some irritation; ‘haven’t we witness enough in the writing on their own devilish tree?’

‘The body is the chief witness in every murder,’ answered the other. ‘The hiding of the body, nine times out of ten, is the practical problem to be solved.’

There was a silence; and Father Brown continued to turn over the red dressing - gown and spread it out on the shining grass of the sunny shore; he did not look up. But, for some time past he had been conscious that the whole landscape had been changed for him by the presence of a third party; standing as still as a statue in the garden.

‘By the way,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘how do you explain that little guy with the glass eye, who brought your poor uncle a letter yesterday? It seemed to me he was entirely altered by reading it; that’s why I wasn’t surprised at the suicide, when I thought it was a suicide. That chap was a rather low - down private detective, or I’m much mistaken.’

‘Why,’ said Henry in a hesitating manner, ‘why, he might have been - husbands do sometimes put on detectives in domestic tragedies like this, don’t they? I suppose he’d got the proofs of their intrigue; and so they

• ’

‘I shouldn’t talk too loud,’ said Father Brown, ‘because your detective is detecting us at this moment, from about a yard beyond those bushes.’

They looked up, and sure enough the goblin with the glass eye was fixing them with that disagreeable optic, looking all the more grotesque for standing among the white and waxen blooms of the classical garden.

Henry Sand scrambled to his feet again with a rapidity that seemed breathless for one of his bulk, and asked the man very angrily and abruptly what he was doing, at the same time telling him to clear out at once.

‘Lord Stanes,’ said the goblin of the garden, ‘would be much obliged if Father Brown would come up to the house and speak to him.’

Henry Sand turned away furiously; but the priest put down his fury to the dislike that was known to exist between him and the nobleman in question. As they mounted the slope, Father Brown paused a moment as if tracing patterns on the smooth tree - trunk, glanced upwards once at the darker and more hidden hieroglyph said to be a record of romance; and then stared at the wider and more sprawling letters of the confession, or supposed confession of suicide.

‘Do those letters remind you of anything?’ he asked. And when his sulky companion shook his head, he added: ‘They remind me of the writing on that placard that threatened him with the vengeance of the strikers.’

‘This is the hardest riddle and the queerest tale I have ever tackled,’ said Father Brown, a month later, as he sat opposite Lord Stanes in the recently furnished apartment of No. 188, the end flat which was the last to be finished before the interregnum of the industrial dispute and the transfer of work from the Trade Union. It was comfortably furnished; and Lord Stanes was presiding over grog and cigars, when the priest made his confession with a grimace. Lord Stanes had become rather surprisingly friendly, in a cool and casual way.

‘I know that is saying a good deal, with your record,’ said Stanes, ‘but certainly the detectives, including our seductive friend with the glass eye, don’t seem at all able to see the solution.’

Father Brown laid down his cigar and said carefully: ‘It isn’t that they can’t see the solution. It is that they can’t see the problem.’

‘Indeed,’ said the other, ‘perhaps I can’t see the problem either.’

‘The problem is unlike all other problems, for this reason,’ said Father Brown. ‘It seems as if the criminal deliberately did two different things, either of which might have been successful; but which, when done together, could only defeat each other. I am assuming, what I firmly believe, that the same murderer pinned up the proclamation threatening a sort of Bolshevik murder, and also wrote on the tree confessing to an ordinary suicide. Now you may say it is after all possible that the proclamation was a proletarian proclamation; that some extremist workmen wanted to kill their employer, and killed him. Even if that were true, it would still stick at the mystery of why they left, or why anybody left, a contrary trail of private self - destruction. But it certainly isn’t true. None of these workmen, however, bitter, would have done a thing like that. I know them pretty well; I know their leaders quite well. To suppose that people like Tom Bruce or Hogan would assassinate somebody they could go for in the newspapers, and damage in all sorts of different ways, is the sort of psychology that sensible people call lunacy. No; there was somebody, who was not an indignant workman, who first played the part of an indignant workman, and then played the part of a suicidal employer. But, in the name of wonder, why? If he thought he could pass it off smoothly as a suicide, why did he first spoil it all by publishing a threat of murder? You might say it was an afterthought to fix up the suicide story, as less provocative than the murder story. But it wasn’t less provocative after the murder story. He must have known he had already turned our thoughts towards murder, when it should have been his whole object to keep our thoughts away from it. If it was an after - thought, it was the after - thought of a very thoughtless person. And I have a notion that this assassin is a very thoughtful person. Can you make anything of it?’

uno. Voglio dire, è facile affermare che l’abbiate gettato in acqua, perché potrebbe essere trascinato via verso il mare. Ma se davvero lo si gettasse in acqua, ci sarebbero cento probabilità contro una che non accadrebbe affatto; le possibilità che finisca a riva da qualche parte sono enormi. Credo che debbano aver escogitato un piano migliore per nascondere il cadavere di questo – altrimenti il cadavere sarebbe già stato ritrovato. E se ci fossero stati segni di violenza…»

«Oh, al diavolo il nascondere il cadavere», disse Henry con una certa irritazione; «non abbiamo forse testimoni a sufficienza in quella scritta sul loro stesso, diabolico albero?»

«Il cadavere è il testimone principale in ogni omicidio», rispose l’altro. «Il nascondere il cadavere, nove volte su dieci, è il problema pratico da risolvere.»

Ci fu un silenzio; e Padre Brown continuò a rivoltare la vestaglia rossa e a distenderla sull’erba lucente della riva soleggiata; non alzò lo sguardo. Ma già da un certo tempo era consapevole che l’intero paesaggio si era mutato, per lui, per la presenza di un terzo; immobile come una statua nel giardino.

«A proposito», disse abbassando la voce, «come spiega quel tizietto con l’occhio di vetro, che ieri ha portato al suo povero zio una lettera? Mi è parso che ne fosse rimasto del tutto trasformato dopo averla letta; ecco perché non mi sorprese il suicidio, quando lo credevo un suicidio. Quel tipo era un investigatore privato piuttosto di infima specie, o mi sbaglio di grosso.»

«Be’», disse Henry in tono esitante, «be’, potrebbe esserlo stato… i mariti talvolta ingaggiano investigatori nelle tragedie domestiche di questo genere, non è vero? Immagino avesse ottenuto le prove del loro intrigo; e così essi…»

«Non parlerei troppo forte», disse Padre Brown, «perché il suo investigatore sta investigando su di noi in questo preciso istante, da circa un metro oltre quei cespugli.»

Alzarono lo sguardo, e per l’appunto il folletto con l’occhio di vetro li stava fissando con quella sgradevole ottica, apparendo tanto più grottesco per il fatto di trovarsi tra i fiori bianchi e cerei del giardino classico.

Henry Sand si rimise in piedi con una rapidità che pareva senza fiato per uno della sua mole, e chiese all’uomo, molto adirato e brusco, che cosa stesse facendo, ordinandogli al tempo stesso di sgombrare all’istante.

«Lord Stanes», disse il folletto del giardino, «sarebbe assai obbligato se Padre Brown volesse salire alla casa a parlargli.»

Henry Sand si voltò furibondo; ma il prete attribuì la sua furia all’avversione, notoriamente esistente, tra lui e il nobiluomo in questione. Mentre risalivano il pendio, Padre Brown si arrestò un momento come per seguire con il dito i disegni sul liscio tronco dell’albero, alzò una volta lo sguardo verso il geroglifico più cupo e più nascosto che si diceva fosse il resoconto di un amore; e poi fissò le lettere più ampie e più sghembe della confessione, o presunta confessione di suicidio.

«Quelle lettere le ricordano qualcosa?» domandò. E quando il suo imbronciato compagno scosse il capo, aggiunse: «A me ricordano la scritta di quel cartello che lo minacciava della vendetta degli scioperanti.»

«Questo è l’enigma più arduo e la storia più bizzarra che io abbia mai affrontato», disse Padre Brown un mese più tardi, seduto di fronte a Lord Stanes nell’appartamento arredato di recente del numero 188, l’ultimo appartamento in fondo, il solo a essere terminato prima dell’interregno della vertenza industriale e del trasferimento del lavoro dal Sindacato. Era arredato con agio; e Lord Stanes presiedeva a grog e sigari, mentre il prete faceva la sua confessione con una smorfia. Lord Stanes si era fatto sorprendentemente cordiale, in un modo freddo e disinvolto.

«So che è dire parecchio, con il suo curriculum», disse Stanes, «ma di certo gli investigatori, incluso il nostro seducente amico dall’occhio di vetro, non sembrano affatto in grado di vedere la soluzione.»

Padre Brown posò il sigaro e disse con cura: «Non è che non riescano a vedere la soluzione. È che non riescono a vedere il problema.»

«Davvero», disse l’altro, «forse nemmeno io riesco a vedere il problema.»

«Il problema è diverso da tutti gli altri problemi, per questa ragione», disse Padre Brown. «Sembra che il criminale abbia deliberatamente compiuto due cose diverse, ciascuna delle quali avrebbe potuto riuscire; ma che, compiute insieme, potevano solo annullarsi a vicenda. Do per certo, come fermamente credo, che il medesimo assassino abbia affisso il proclama che minacciava una sorta di omicidio bolscevico, e abbia anche scritto sull’albero confessando un normale suicidio. Ora lei potrebbe dire che, dopo tutto, è possibile che il proclama fosse un proclama proletario; che certi operai estremisti volessero uccidere il loro datore di lavoro, e lo abbiano ucciso. Anche se ciò fosse vero, resterebbe pur sempre il mistero del perché essi lasciarono, o perché qualcuno lasciò, una traccia contraria di autodistruzione privata. Ma di certo non è vero. Nessuno di questi operai, per quanto esasperato, avrebbe fatto una cosa simile. Li conosco assai bene; conosco i loro capi molto bene. Supporre che gente come Tom Bruce o Hogan assassinerebbe qualcuno che potrebbe attaccare sui giornali, e danneggiare in ogni sorta di modi diversi, è il genere di psicologia che le persone di buon senso chiamano follia. No; c’era qualcuno, che non era un operaio indignato, il quale prima recitò la parte di un operaio indignato, e poi recitò la parte di un datore di lavoro suicida. Ma, in nome della meraviglia, perché? Se pensava di poterlo far passare senza intoppi per un suicidio, perché prima rovinò tutto pubblicando una minaccia di omicidio? Lei potrebbe dire che fu un ripensamento imbastire la storia del suicidio, come meno provocatoria di quella dell’omicidio. Ma non era meno provocatoria dopo la storia dell’omicidio. Doveva sapere di aver già rivolto i nostri pensieri verso l’omicidio, quando invece il suo unico scopo avrebbe dovuto essere tenerne lontani i nostri pensieri. Se fu un ripensamento, fu il ripensamento di una persona assai sconsiderata. E ho la sensazione che questo assassino sia una persona assai riflessiva. Riesce a cavarne qualcosa?»

‘No; but I see what you mean,’ said Stanes, ‘by saying that I didn’t even see the problem. It isn’t merely who killed Sand; it’s why anybody should accuse somebody else of killing Sand and then accuse Sand of killing himself.’

Father Brown’s face was knotted and the cigar was clenched in his teeth; the end of it plowed and darkened rhythmically like the signal of some burning pulse of the brain. Then he spoke as if to himself:

‘We’ve got to follow very closely and very clearly. It’s like separating threads of thought from each other; something like this. Because the murder charge really rather spoilt the suicide charge, he wouldn’t normally have made the murder charge. But he did make it; so he had some other reason for making it. It was so strong a reason that perhaps it reconciled him even to weakening his other line of defence; that it was a suicide. In other words, the murder charge wasn’t really a murder charge. I mean he wasn’t using it as a murder charge; he wasn’t doing it so as to shift to somebody else the guilt of murder; he was doing it for some other extraordinary reason of his own. His plan had to contain a proclamation that Sand would be murdered; whether it threw suspicion on other people or not. Somehow or other the mere proclamation itself was necessary. But why?’

He smoked and smouldered away with the same volcanic concentration for five minutes before he spoke again. ‘What could a murderous proclamation do, besides suggesting that the strikers were the murderers? What did it do? One thing is obvious; it inevitably did the opposite of what it said. It told Sand not to lock out his men; and it was perhaps the only thing in the world that would really have made him do it. You’ve got to think of the sort of man and the sort of reputation. When a man has been called a Strong Man in our silly sensational newspapers, when he is fondly regarded as a Sportsman by all the most distinguished asses in England, he simply can’t back down because he is threatened with a pistol. It would be like walking about at Ascot with a white feather stuck in his absurd white hat. It would break that inner idol or ideal of oneself, which every man not a downright dastard does really prefer to life. And Sand wasn’t a dastard; he was courageous; he was also impulsive. It acted instantly like a charm: his nephew, who had been more or less mixed up with the workmen, cried out instantly that the threat must be absolutely and instantly defied.’

‘Yes,’ said Lord Stanes, ‘I noticed that.’ They looked at each other for an instant, and then Stanes added carelessly: ‘So you think the thing the criminal wanted was…’

‘The Lock - out!’ cried the priest energetically. ‘The Strike or whatever you call it; the cessation of work, anyhow. He wanted the work to stop at once; perhaps the blacklegs to come in at once; certainly the Trade Unionists to go out at once. That is what he really wanted; God knows why. And he brought that off, I think, really without bothering much about its other implication of the existence of Bolshevist assassins. But then … then I think something went wrong. I’m only guessing and groping very slowly here; but the only explanation I can think of is that something began to draw attention to the real seat of the trouble; to the reason, whatever it was, of his wanting to bring the building to a halt. And then belatedly, desperately, and rather inconsistently, he tried to lay the other trail that led to the river, simply and solely because it led away from the flats.’

He looked up through his moonlike spectacles, absorbing all the quality of the background and furniture; the restrained luxury of a quiet man of the world; and contrasting it with the two suitcases with which its occupant had arrived so recently in a newly - finished and unfurnished flat. Then he said rather abruptly: ‘In short, the murderer was frightened of something or somebody in the flats. By the way, why did you come to live in the flats? … Also by the way, young Henry told me you made an early appointment with him when you moved in. Is that true?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Stanes. ‘I got the key from his uncle the night before. I’ve no notion why Henry came here that morning.’

‘Ah,’ said Father Brown, ‘then I think I have some notion of why he came … I thought you startled him by coming in just when he was coming out.’

‘And yet,’ said Stanes, looking across with a glitter in his grey - green eyes, ‘you do rather think that I also am a mystery.’

‘I think you are two mysteries,’ said Father Brown. ‘The first is why you originally retired from Sand’s business. The second is why you have since come back to live in Sand’s buildings.’

Stanes smoked reflectively, knocked out his ash, and rang a bell on the table before him. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said, ‘I will summon two more to the council. Jackson, the little detective you know of, will answer the bell; and I’ve asked Henry Sand to come in a little later.’

Father Brown rose from his seat, walked across the room and looked down frowning into the fire - place.

‘Meanwhile,’ continued Stanes, ‘I don’t mind answering both your questions. I left the Sand business because I was sure there was some hanky - panky in it and somebody was pinching all the money. I came back to it, and took this flat, because I wanted to watch for the real truth about old Sand’s death - on the spot.’

Father Brown faced round as the detective entered the room; he stood staring at the hearthrug and repeated: ‘On the spot.’

‘Mr Jackson will tell you,’ said Stanes, ‘that Sir Hubert commissioned him to find out who was the thief robbing the firm; and he brought a note of his discoveries the day before old Hubert disappeared.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, ‘and I know now where he disappeared to. I know where the body is.’

‘Do you mean -?’ began his host hastily.

«No; ma capisco cosa intende», disse Stanes, «dicendo che io non vedevo neppure il problema. Non si tratta solo di chi abbia ucciso Sand; si tratta del perché qualcuno dovrebbe accusare qualcun altro di aver ucciso Sand e poi accusare Sand di essersi ucciso.»

Il volto di Padre Brown era annodato e il sigaro era stretto fra i suoi denti; l’estremità solcava e si oscurava ritmicamente come il segnale di qualche ardente pulsare del cervello. Poi parlò come tra sé:

«Dobbiamo seguire il filo con molta attenzione e molta chiarezza. È come separare i fili del pensiero l’uno dall’altro; qualcosa di questo genere. Poiché l’accusa di omicidio in realtà guastava piuttosto l’accusa di suicidio, normalmente non avrebbe mosso l’accusa di omicidio. Ma l’ha mossa; dunque aveva qualche altra ragione per muoverla. Era una ragione così forte che forse lo riconciliava perfino con l’indebolimento dell’altra sua linea di difesa; ossia che si trattasse di un suicidio. In altre parole, l’accusa di omicidio non era in realtà un’accusa di omicidio. Voglio dire che non la usava come accusa di omicidio; non la muoveva per scaricare su qualcun altro la colpa dell’omicidio; la muoveva per qualche altra straordinaria ragione tutta sua. Il suo piano doveva contenere un proclama che Sand sarebbe stato assassinato; sia che gettasse sospetti su altre persone sia che no. In un modo o nell’altro, il proclama in sé era necessario. Ma perché?»

Fumò e covò via con la medesima vulcanica concentrazione per cinque minuti, prima di parlare di nuovo. «Che cosa poteva fare un proclama omicida, oltre a suggerire che gli assassini fossero gli scioperanti? Che cosa fece? Una cosa è ovvia; fece inevitabilmente l’opposto di ciò che diceva. Diceva a Sand di non serrare fuori i suoi uomini; ed era forse l’unica cosa al mondo che davvero lo avrebbe indotto a farlo. Bisogna pensare al tipo d’uomo e al tipo di reputazione. Quando un uomo è stato chiamato Uomo Forte dai nostri sciocchi giornali sensazionalisti, quando è teneramente considerato uno Sportivo da tutti i più insigni somari d’Inghilterra, semplicemente non può fare marcia indietro perché lo si minaccia con una pistola. Sarebbe come passeggiare ad Ascot con una piuma bianca infilata nel suo assurdo cilindro bianco. Spezzerebbe quell’idolo o ideale interiore di sé stesso, che ogni uomo, purché non sia un autentico vigliacco, preferisce davvero alla vita. E Sand non era un vigliacco; era coraggioso; era anche impulsivo. Agì all’istante come un incantesimo: suo nipote, che era stato più o meno immischiato con gli operai, gridò all’istante che la minaccia doveva essere sfidata in modo assoluto e immediato.»

«Sì», disse Lord Stanes, «l’ho notato.» Si guardarono l’un l’altro per un istante, e poi Stanes aggiunse con noncuranza: «Dunque lei pensa che ciò che il criminale voleva fosse…»

«La serrata!» esclamò il prete con energia. «Lo sciopero o come lo si voglia chiamare; la cessazione del lavoro, comunque. Voleva che il lavoro si fermasse all’istante; forse che i crumiri entrassero all’istante; di sicuro che gli iscritti al Sindacato uscissero all’istante. Ecco ciò che davvero voleva; Dio sa perché. E questo lo ottenne, credo, senza in realtà curarsi troppo dell’altra implicazione, l’esistenza di assassini bolscevichi. Ma poi… poi credo che qualcosa andò storto. Qui sto solo tirando a indovinare e brancolando molto lentamente; ma l’unica spiegazione che riesco a immaginare è che qualcosa cominciò ad attirare l’attenzione sulla vera sede del guaio; sulla ragione, qualunque fosse, del suo voler bloccare la costruzione. E allora, tardivamente, disperatamente e piuttosto incoerentemente, cercò di stendere l’altra traccia, quella che conduceva al fiume, semplicemente e unicamente perché conduceva lontano dagli appartamenti.»

Alzò lo sguardo attraverso i suoi occhiali lunari, assorbendo tutta la qualità dello sfondo e del mobilio; il lusso sobrio di un tranquillo uomo di mondo; e mettendolo a contrasto con le due valigie con cui il suo occupante era giunto così di recente in un appartamento appena finito e privo di mobilia. Poi disse piuttosto bruscamente: «In breve, l’assassino aveva paura di qualcosa o di qualcuno negli appartamenti. A proposito, perché è venuto ad abitare negli appartamenti?… E, sempre a proposito, il giovane Henry mi ha detto che lei fissò con lui un appuntamento di buon’ora quando si trasferì. È vero?»

«Niente affatto», disse Stanes. «Ebbi la chiave da suo zio la notte prima. Non ho idea del perché Henry sia venuto qui quella mattina.»

«Ah», disse Padre Brown, «allora credo di avere una qualche idea del perché sia venuto… Ho pensato che lei lo colse di sorpresa entrando proprio quando lui stava uscendo.»

«Eppure», disse Stanes, guardando dall’altra parte con un luccichio negli occhi verde-grigi, «lei pensa piuttosto che anch’io sia un mistero.»

«Penso che lei sia due misteri», disse Padre Brown. «Il primo è perché in origine si sia ritirato dagli affari di Sand. Il secondo è perché sia poi tornato ad abitare negli edifici di Sand.»

Stanes fumò meditabondo, fece cadere la cenere e suonò un campanello sul tavolo davanti a sé. «Se vuole scusarmi», disse, «convocherò altri due al consiglio. Jackson, il piccolo investigatore che lei conosce, risponderà al campanello; e ho chiesto a Henry Sand di venire un po’ più tardi.»

Padre Brown si alzò dal suo posto, attraversò la stanza e abbassò lo sguardo, aggrottato, verso il camino.

«Nel frattempo», proseguì Stanes, «non mi dispiace rispondere a entrambe le sue domande. Lasciai gli affari di Sand perché ero certo che vi fosse sotto qualche imbroglio e che qualcuno stesse sottraendo tutto il denaro. Vi tornai, e presi questo appartamento, perché volevo vigilare per scoprire la vera verità sulla morte del vecchio Sand… sul posto.»

Padre Brown si voltò mentre l’investigatore entrava nella stanza; rimase a fissare il tappetino del focolare e ripeté: «Sul posto.»

«Il signor Jackson le dirà», disse Stanes, «che Sir Hubert gli affidò l’incarico di scoprire chi fosse il ladro che derubava la ditta; e portò una nota delle sue scoperte il giorno prima che il vecchio Hubert scomparisse.»

«Sì», disse Padre Brown, «e ora so dove è scomparso. So dove si trova il cadavere.»

«Vuole dire…?» cominciò il suo ospite in fretta.

‘It is here,’ said Father Brown, and stamped on the hearthrug. ‘Here, under the elegant Persian rug in this cosy and comfortable room.’

‘Where in the world did you find that?’

‘I’ve just remembered,’ said Father Brown, ‘that I found it in my sleep.’

He closed his eyes as if trying to picture a dream, and went on dreamily:

‘This is a murder story turning on the problem of How to Hide the Body; and I found it in my sleep. I was always woken up every morning by hammering from this building. On that morning I half - woke up, went to sleep again and woke once more, expecting to find it late; but it wasn’t. Why? Because there had been hammering that morning, though all the usual work had stopped; short, hurried hammering in the small hours before dawn. Automatically a man sleeping stirs at such a familiar sound. But he goes to sleep again, because the usual sound is not at the usual hour. Now why did a certain secret criminal want all the work to cease suddenly; and only new workers come in? Because, if the old workers had come in next day, they would have found a new piece of work done in the night. The old workers would have known where they left off; and they would have found the whole flooring of this room already nailed down. Nailed down by a man who knew how to do it; haying mixed a good deal with the workmen and learned their ways.’

As he spoke, the door was pushed open and a head poked in with a thrusting motion; a small head at the end of a thick neck and a face that blinked at them through glasses.

‘Henry Sand said,’ observed Father Brown, staring at the ceiling, ‘that he was no good at hiding things. But I think he did himself an injustice.’

Henry Sand turned and moved swiftly away down the corridor.

‘He not only hid his thefts from the firm quite successfully for years,’ went on the priest with an air of abstraction, ‘but when his uncle discovered them, he hid his uncle’s corpse in an entirely new and original manner.’

At the same instant Stanes again rang a bell, with a long strident steady ringing; and the little man with the glass eye was propelled or shot along the corridor after the fugitive, with something of the rotatory motion of a mechanical figure in a zoetrope. At the same moment, Father Brown looked out of the window, leaning over a small balcony, and saw five or six men start from behind bushes and railings in the street below and spread out equally mechanically like a fan or net; opening out after the fugitive who had shot like a bullet out of the front door. Father Brown saw only the pattern of the story; which had never strayed from that room; where Henry had strangled Hubert and hid his body under impenetrable flooring, stopping the whole work on the building to do it. A pin - prick had started his own suspicions; but only to tell him he had been led down the long loop of a lie. The point of the pin was that it was pointless.

He fancied he understood Stanes at last, and he liked to collect queer people who were difficult to understand. He realized that this tired gentleman, whom he had once accused of having green blood, had indeed a sort of cold green flame of conscientiousness or conventional honour, that had made him first shift out of a shady business, and then feel ashamed of having shifted it on to others; and come back as a bored laborious detective; pitching his camp on the very spot where the corpse had been buried; so that the murderer, finding him sniffing so near the corpse, had wildly staged the alternative drama of the dressing - gown and the drowned man. All that was plain enough, but, before he withdrew his head from the night air and the stars. Father Brown threw one glance upwards at the vast black bulk of the cyclopean building heaved far up into the night, and remembered Egypt and Babylon, and all that is at once eternal and ephemeral in the work of man.

‘I was right in what I said first of all,’ he said. ‘It reminds one of Coppee’s poem about the Pharaoh and the Pyramid. This house is supposed to be a hundred houses; and yet the whole mountain of building is only one man’s tomb.’

«È qui», disse Padre Brown, e batté il piede sul tappetino del focolare. «Qui, sotto l’elegante tappeto persiano di questa stanza intima e confortevole.»

«Dove diavolo l’ha scoperto?»

«Me ne sono appena ricordato», disse Padre Brown, «l’ho scoperto nel sonno.»

Chiuse gli occhi come se cercasse di raffigurarsi un sogno, e proseguì sognante:

«Questa è una storia di omicidio incentrata sul problema di Come Nascondere il Cadavere; e l’ho scoperto nel sonno. Ero sempre svegliato, ogni mattina, dal martellare proveniente da questo edificio. Quella mattina mi svegliai a metà, ripresi sonno e mi svegliai ancora una volta, aspettandomi che fosse tardi; ma non lo era. Perché? Perché quella mattina c’era stato del martellare, benché tutto il consueto lavoro fosse cessato; un martellare breve, affrettato, nelle ore piccole prima dell’alba. Automaticamente un uomo che dorme si scuote a un suono così familiare. Ma riprende sonno, perché il suono consueto non è all’ora consueta. Ora, perché un certo segreto criminale voleva che tutto il lavoro cessasse all’improvviso; e che entrassero solo operai nuovi? Perché, se gli operai vecchi fossero venuti il giorno seguente, avrebbero trovato un nuovo lavoro compiuto nella notte. Gli operai vecchi avrebbero saputo dove si erano interrotti; e avrebbero trovato l’intero pavimento di questa stanza già inchiodato. Inchiodato da un uomo che sapeva come farlo; che si era mescolato a lungo agli operai e ne aveva imparato le abitudini.»

Mentre parlava, la porta fu spinta e una testa vi si sporse dentro con un movimento protendente; una piccola testa all’estremità di un collo tozzo e un volto che li sbirciava attraverso le lenti.

«Henry Sand ha detto», osservò Padre Brown, fissando il soffitto, «di non essere capace di nascondere le cose. Ma credo che si sia fatto un torto.»

Henry Sand si voltò e si allontanò rapidamente giù per il corridoio.

«Non solo nascose i suoi furti alla ditta con pieno successo per anni», proseguì il prete con aria distratta, «ma quando suo zio li scoprì, nascose il cadavere dello zio in un modo del tutto nuovo e originale.»

Nel medesimo istante Stanes suonò di nuovo un campanello, con uno squillo lungo, stridulo e costante; e il piccolo uomo dall’occhio di vetro fu spinto o scagliato lungo il corridoio all’inseguimento del fuggitivo, con qualcosa del moto rotatorio di una figura meccanica in uno zootropio. Nello stesso momento, Padre Brown guardò fuori dalla finestra, sporgendosi da un piccolo balcone, e vide cinque o sei uomini balzare da dietro cespugli e ringhiere nella strada sottostante e dispiegarsi con eguale meccanicità come un ventaglio o una rete; aprendosi dietro il fuggitivo che era schizzato come una pallottola fuori dalla porta d’ingresso. Padre Brown vide soltanto il disegno della storia; che non si era mai allontanato da quella stanza; dove Henry aveva strangolato Hubert e nascosto il suo cadavere sotto un impenetrabile pavimento, arrestando l’intero lavoro sull’edificio per farlo. Una puntura di spillo aveva destato i suoi stessi sospetti; ma solo per dirgli che era stato condotto lungo il lungo cappio di una menzogna. Il punto dello spillo era che non aveva punta.

Gli parve di comprendere finalmente Stanes, e gli piaceva collezionare persone strane, difficili da comprendere. Comprese che quel gentiluomo stanco, che una volta aveva accusato di avere il sangue verde, possedeva in effetti una sorta di fredda fiamma verde di scrupolosità o di onore convenzionale, che lo aveva indotto dapprima a sfilarsi da un affare losco, e poi a vergognarsi di averlo scaricato su altri; e a tornare come annoiato e laborioso investigatore; piantando il campo proprio sul luogo dove il cadavere era stato sepolto; sicché l’assassino, trovandolo a fiutare così vicino al cadavere, aveva freneticamente allestito il dramma alternativo della vestaglia e dell’annegato. Tutto ciò era abbastanza chiaro, ma, prima di ritirare il capo dall’aria della notte e dalle stelle, Padre Brown gettò un’occhiata verso l’alto alla vasta mole nera dell’edificio ciclopico che si ergeva su, lontano, nella notte, e ricordò l’Egitto e Babilonia, e tutto ciò che è al tempo stesso eterno ed effimero nell’opera dell’uomo.

«Avevo ragione in ciò che dissi fin dal principio», disse. «Ricorda la poesia di Coppée sul Faraone e la Piramide. Questa casa dovrebbe essere cento case; eppure l’intera montagna d’edificio non è che la tomba di un solo uomo.»

EIGHT: The Insoluble Problem

This queer incident, in some ways perhaps the queerest of the many that came his way, happened to Father Brown at the time when his French friend Flambeau had retired from the profession of crime and had entered with great energy and success on the profession of crime investigator. It happened that both as a thief and a thief – taker, Flambeau had rather specialized in the matter of jewel thefts, on which he was admitted to be an expert, both in the matter of identifying jewels and the equally practical matter of identifying jewel - thieves. And it was in connection with his special knowledge of this subject, and a special commission which it had won for him, that he rang up his friend the priest on the particular morning on which this story begins.

Father Brown was delighted to hear the voice of his old friend, even on the telephone; but in a general way, and especially at that particular moment, Father Brown was not very fond of the telephone. He was one who preferred to watch people’s faces and feel social atmospheres, and he knew well that without these things, verbal messages are apt to be very misleading, especially from total strangers. And it seemed as if, on that particular morning, a swarm of total strangers had been buzzing in his ear with more or less unenlightening verbal messages; the telephone seemed to be possessed of a demon of triviality. Perhaps the most distinctive voice was one which asked him whether he did not issue regular permits for murder and theft upon the payment of a regular tariff hung up in his church; and as the stranger, on being informed that this was not the case, concluded the colloquy with a hollow laugh, it may be presumed that he remained unconvinced. Then an agitated, rather inconsequent female voice rang up requesting him to come round at once to a certain hotel he had heard of some forty - five miles on the road to a neighbouring cathedral town; the request being immediately followed by a contradiction in the same voice, more agitated and yet more inconsequent, telling him that it did not matter and that he was not wanted after all. Then came an interlude of a Press agency asking him if he had anything to say on what a Film Actress had said about Moustaches for Men; and finally yet a third return of the agitated and inconsequent lady at the hotel, saying that he was wanted, after all. He vaguely supposed that this marked some of the hesitations and panics not unknown among those who are vaguely veering in the direction of Instruction, but he confessed to a considerable relief when the voice of Flambeau wound up the series with a hearty threat of immediately turning up for breakfast.

Father Brown very much preferred to talk to a friend sitting comfortably over a pipe, but it soon appeared that his visitor was on the warpath and full of energy, having every intention of carrying off the little priest captive on some important expedition of his own. It was true that there was a special circumstance involved which might be supposed to claim the priest’s attention. Flambeau had figured several times of late as successfully thwarting a theft of famous precious stones; he had torn the tiara of the Duchess of Dulwich out of the very hand of the bandit as he bolted through the garden. He laid so ingenious a trap for the criminal who planned to carry off the celebrated Sapphire Necklace that the artist in question actually carried off the copy which he had himself planned to leave as a substitute.

Such were doubtless the reasons that had led to his being specially summoned to guard the delivery of a rather different sort of treasure; perhaps even more valuable in its mere materials, but possessing also another sort of value. A world - famous reliquary, supposed to contain a relic of St. Dorothy the martyr, was to be delivered at the Catholic monastery in a cathedral town; and one of the most famous of international jewel - thieves was supposed to have an eye on it; or rather presumably on the gold and rubies of its setting, rather than its purely hagiological importance. Perhaps there was something in this association of ideas which made Flambeau feel that the priest would be a particularly appropriate companion in his adventure; but anyhow, he descended on him, breathing fire and ambition and very voluble about his plans for preventing the theft.

Flambeau indeed bestrode the priest’s hearth gigantically and in the old swaggering musketeer attitude, twirling his great moustaches.

‘You can’t,’ he cried, referring to the sixty - mile road to Casterbury. ‘You can’t allow a profane robbery like that to happen under your very nose.’

The relic was not to reach the monastery till the evening; and there was no need for its defenders to arrive earlier; for indeed a motor - journey would take them the greater part of the day. Moreover, Father Brown casually remarked that there was an inn on the road, at which he would prefer to lunch, as he had been already asked to look in there as soon as was convenient.

As they drove along through a densely wooded but sparsely inhabited landscape, in which inns and all other buildings seemed to grow rarer and rarer, the daylight began to take on the character of a stormy twilight even in the heat of noon; and dark purple clouds gathered over dark grey forests. As is common under the lurid quietude of that kind of light, what colour there was in the landscape gained a sort of secretive glow which is not found in objects under the full sunlight; and ragged red leaves or golden or orange fungi seemed to burn with a dark fire of their own. Under such a half - light they came to a break in the woods like a great rent in a grey wall, and saw beyond, standing above the gap, the tall and rather outlandish - looking inn that bore the name of the Green Dragon.

OTTO: Il problema insolubile

Questo bizzarro episodio, per certi versi forse il più bizzarro tra i molti che gli capitarono, accadde a Father Brown nel tempo in cui il suo amico francese Flambeau si era ritirato dalla professione del delitto ed era entrato con grande energia e successo nella professione dell’investigatore criminale. Volle il caso che, tanto come ladro quanto come acchiappaladri, Flambeau si fosse piuttosto specializzato nella materia dei furti di gioielli, nella quale gli si riconosceva la competenza di un esperto, sia nel riconoscere i gioielli sia nell’altrettanto pratica faccenda di riconoscere i ladri di gioielli. E fu proprio in connessione con la sua speciale conoscenza di questo soggetto, e con un incarico speciale che essa gli aveva procurato, che egli telefonò all’amico prete quella particolare mattina con cui questa storia comincia.

Father Brown fu lietissimo di udire la voce del vecchio amico, anche se al telefono; ma in generale, e specialmente in quel particolare momento, Father Brown non amava molto il telefono. Egli era di quelli che preferiscono osservare i volti della gente e sentire le atmosfere sociali, e sapeva bene che, senza queste cose, i messaggi verbali sono soggetti a riuscire assai ingannevoli, soprattutto quando vengono da perfetti sconosciuti. E pareva che, proprio quella mattina, uno sciame di perfetti sconosciuti gli avesse ronzato nell’orecchio con messaggi verbali più o meno oscuri; il telefono sembrava posseduto da un demone della banalità. Forse la voce più singolare fu quella che gli chiese se non rilasciasse regolari permessi per l’omicidio e il furto dietro pagamento di una regolare tariffa esposta nella sua chiesa; e poiché lo sconosciuto, informato che così non era, concluse il colloquio con una risata cavernosa, si può presumere che rimanesse non convinto. Poi una voce femminile agitata e alquanto sconnessa lo chiamò pregandolo di recarsi subito in un certo albergo di cui aveva sentito parlare, a una quarantina di miglia lungo la strada per una vicina città con cattedrale; richiesta immediatamente seguita da una smentita nella stessa voce, ancor più agitata e ancor più sconnessa, che gli diceva che non aveva importanza e che dopotutto non c’era bisogno di lui. Poi venne l’intermezzo di un’agenzia di stampa che gli chiedeva se avesse qualcosa da dire su ciò che una certa Attrice Cinematografica aveva dichiarato a proposito dei Baffi per Uomo; e infine ancora un terzo ritorno dell’agitata e sconnessa signora dell’albergo, che diceva che, dopotutto, c’era bisogno di lui. Egli suppose vagamente che ciò segnasse qualcuna di quelle esitazioni e paure non ignote a coloro che virano vagamente in direzione dell’Istruzione religiosa, ma confessò a se stesso un considerevole sollievo quando la voce di Flambeau chiuse la serie con una cordiale minaccia di presentarsi immediatamente per la colazione.

Father Brown avrebbe di gran lunga preferito conversare con un amico seduto comodamente davanti a una pipa, ma ben presto apparve che il suo visitatore era sul sentiero di guerra e pieno d’energia, con ogni intenzione di trascinarsi via prigioniero il piccolo prete in una qualche importante spedizione tutta sua. È vero che era coinvolta una circostanza speciale, la quale si poteva supporre reclamasse l’attenzione del prete. Flambeau aveva figurato parecchie volte negli ultimi tempi come colui che sventava con successo il furto di celebri pietre preziose; aveva strappato la tiara della Duchessa di Dulwich dalla mano stessa del bandito mentre questi fuggiva a precipizio attraverso il giardino. Aveva teso una trappola così ingegnosa al criminale che progettava di portar via la celebre Collana di Zaffiri, che l’artista in questione si portò via effettivamente la copia che egli stesso aveva progettato di lasciare come sostituto.

Tali erano senza dubbio le ragioni che avevano condotto a convocarlo appositamente per vigilare sulla consegna di un tesoro di natura piuttosto diversa; forse ancor più prezioso nella sola materia di cui era fatto, ma dotato anche di un altro genere di valore. Un reliquiario famoso in tutto il mondo, che si supponeva contenesse una reliquia di Santa Dorotea la martire, doveva essere consegnato al monastero cattolico di una città con cattedrale; e si supponeva che uno dei più celebri ladri di gioielli internazionali vi avesse messo gli occhi sopra; o meglio, presumibilmente, sull’oro e sui rubini della sua montatura, più che sulla sua importanza puramente agiografica. Forse c’era qualcosa in questa associazione di idee che faceva sentire a Flambeau che il prete sarebbe stato un compagno particolarmente adatto per la sua avventura; comunque sia, gli piombò addosso, spirando fuoco e ambizione e assai loquace intorno ai suoi piani per impedire il furto.

Flambeau infatti troneggiava gigantesco davanti al focolare del prete, nella vecchia posa spavalda del moschettiere, arricciandosi i grandi baffi.

«Non potete,» esclamò, riferendosi alle sessanta miglia di strada fino a Casterbury. «Non potete permettere che una profana rapina simile avvenga proprio sotto il vostro naso.»

La reliquia non doveva giungere al monastero prima di sera; e non c’era bisogno che i suoi difensori arrivassero prima; giacché in verità un viaggio in automobile avrebbe preso loro la maggior parte della giornata. Per di più, Padre Brown osservò con noncuranza che c’era una locanda lungo la strada, nella quale avrebbe preferito pranzare, poiché lo si era già invitato a farvi una capatina appena gli fosse stato comodo.

Mentre procedevano in automobile attraverso un paesaggio densamente boscoso ma scarsamente abitato, nel quale locande e ogni altro edificio parevano farsi sempre più rari, la luce del giorno cominciò ad assumere il carattere di un tempestoso crepuscolo persino nella calura del mezzogiorno; e cupe nuvole di porpora si radunavano sopra cupe foreste grigie. Come accade sotto la sinistra quiete di quel genere di luce, quel poco di colore che c’era nel paesaggio acquistava una sorta di bagliore segreto che non si trova negli oggetti sotto il pieno sole; e frastagliate foglie rosse o funghi dorati o arancioni parevano ardere di un cupo fuoco tutto loro. Sotto una tale mezza luce giunsero a uno squarcio nel bosco simile a una grande breccia in un muro grigio, e videro al di là, ritta sopra il varco, l’alta e piuttosto stramba locanda che portava il nome di Green Dragon.

The two old companions had often arrived together at inns and other human habitations, and found a somewhat singular state of things there; but the signs of singularity had seldom manifested themselves so early. For while their car was still some hundreds of yards from the dark green door, which matched the dark green shutters of the high and narrow building, the door was thrown open with violence and a woman with a wild mop of red hair rushed to meet them, as if she were ready to board the car in full career. Flambeau brought the car to a standstill but almost before he had done so, she thrust her white and tragic face into the window, crying:

‘Are you Father Brown?’ and then almost in the same breath; ‘who is this man?’

‘This gentleman’s name is Flambeau,’ said Father Brown in a tranquil manner, ‘and what can I do for you?’

‘Come into the inn,’ she said, with extraordinary abruptness even under the circumstances. ‘There’s been a murder done.’

They got out of the car in silence and followed her to the dark green door which opened inwards on a sort of dark green alley, formed of stakes and wooden pillars, wreathed with vine and ivy, showing square leaves of black and red and many sombre colours. This again led through an inner door into a sort of large parlour hung with rusty trophies of Cavalier arms, of which the furniture seemed to be antiquated and also in great confusion, like the inside of a lumber - room. They were quite startled for the moment; for it seemed as if one large piece of lumber rose and moved towards them; so dusty and shabby and ungainly was the man who thus abandoned what seemed like a state of permanent immobility.

Strangely enough, the man seemed to have a certain agility of politeness, when once he did move; even if it suggested the wooden joints of a courtly step - ladder or an obsequious towel - horse. Both Flambeau and Father Brown felt that they had hardly ever clapped eyes on a man who was so difficult to place. He was not what is called a gentleman; yet he had something of the dusty refinement of a scholar; there was something faintly disreputable or declasse about him; and yet the smell of him was rather bookish than Bohemian. He was thin and pale, with a pointed nose and a dark pointed beard; his brow was bald, but his hair behind long and lank and stringy; and the expression of his eyes was almost entirely masked by a pair of blue spectacles. Father Brown felt that he had met something of the sort somewhere, and a long time ago; but he could no longer put a name to it. The lumber he sat among was largely literary lumber; especially bundles of seventeenth - century pamphlets.

‘Do I understand the lady to say,’ asked Flambeau gravely, ‘that there is a murder here?’

The lady nodded her red ragged head rather impatiently; except for those flaming elf - locks she had lost some of her look of wildness; her dark dress was of a certain dignity and neatness; her features were strong and handsome; and there was something about her suggesting that double strength of body and mind which makes women powerful, particularly in contrast with men like the man in blue spectacles. Nevertheless, it was he who gave the only articulate answer, intervening with a certain antic gallantry.

‘It is true that my unfortunate sister - in - law,’ he explained, ‘has almost this moment suffered a most appalling shock which we should all have desired to spare her. I only wish that I myself had made the discovery and suffered only the further distress of bringing the terrible news. Unfortunately it was Mrs Flood herself who found her aged grandfather, long sick and bedridden in this hotel, actually dead in the garden; in circumstances which point only too plainly to violence and assault. Curious circumstances, I may say, very curious circumstances indeed.’ And he coughed slightly, as if apologizing for them.

Flambeau bowed to the lady and expressed his sincere sympathies; then he said to the man: ‘I think you said, sir, that you are Mrs Flood’s brother - in - law.’

‘I am Dr Oscar Flood,’ replied the other. ‘My brother, this lady’s husband, is at present away on the Continent on business, and she is running the hotel. Her grandfather was partially paralysed and very far advanced in years. He was never known to leave his bedroom; so that really these extraordinary circumstances …’

‘Have you sent for a doctor or the police?’ asked Flambeau.

‘Yes,’ replied Dr Flood, ‘we rang up after making the dreadful discovery; but they can hardly be here for some hours. This roadhouse stands so very remote. It is only used by people going to Casterbury or even beyond. So we thought we might ask for your valuable assistance until - ’

‘If we are to be of any assistance,’ said Father Brown, interrupting in too abstracted a manner to seem uncivil, ‘I should say we had better go and look at the circumstances at once.’

He stepped almost mechanically towards the door; and almost ran into a man who was shouldering his way in; a big, heavy young man with dark hair unbrushed and untidy, who would nevertheless have been rather handsome save for a slight disfigurement of one eye, which gave him rather a sinister appearance.

‘What the devil are you doing?’ he blurted out, ‘telling every Tom, Dick and Harry - at least you ought to wait for the police.’

‘I will be answerable to the police,’ said Flambeau with a certain magnificence, and a sudden air of having taken command of everything. He advanced to the doorway, and as he was much bigger than the big young man, and his moustaches were as formidable as the horns of a Spanish bull, the big young man backed before him and had an inconsequent air of being thrown out and left behind, as the group swept out into the garden and up the flagged path towards the mulberry plantation. Only Flambeau heard the little priest say to the doctor: ‘He doesn’t seem to love us really, does he? By the way, who is he?’

I due vecchi compagni erano spesso arrivati insieme a locande e ad altre dimore umane, e vi avevano trovato uno stato di cose alquanto singolare; ma i segni della singolarità si erano di rado manifestati così presto. Poiché mentre la loro automobile era ancora a qualche centinaio di iarde dalla porta verde scuro, che si intonava alle imposte verde scuro dell’edificio alto e stretto, la porta fu spalancata con violenza e una donna con una selvaggia zazzera di capelli rossi si precipitò loro incontro, come pronta ad abbordare l’automobile in piena corsa. Flambeau arrestò la vettura, ma quasi prima che l’avesse fatto, ella cacciò il suo volto bianco e tragico dentro il finestrino, gridando:

«Siete voi Father Brown?» e poi, quasi nello stesso respiro: «chi è quest’uomo?»

«Questo signore si chiama Flambeau,» disse Father Brown con maniera tranquilla, «e che cosa posso fare per voi?»

«Venite dentro la locanda,» disse ella, con straordinaria bruschezza persino date le circostanze. «È stato commesso un delitto.»

Scesero dall’automobile in silenzio e la seguirono fino alla porta verde scuro che si apriva verso l’interno su una specie di pergolato verde scuro, formato di pali e di pilastri di legno, inghirlandato di vite e d’edera, che mostrava foglie squadrate di nero e di rosso e di molte tinte fosche. Questo conduceva a sua volta, attraverso una porta interna, a una specie di ampio salotto ornato di arrugginiti trofei d’armi cavalleresche, il cui mobilio pareva antiquato e per giunta in gran disordine, come l’interno di un ripostiglio. Per un momento restarono davvero trasaliti; poiché parve che un grosso pezzo di cianfrusaglia si levasse e movesse verso di loro; tanto polveroso e sciatto e sgraziato era l’uomo che così abbandonava quello che sembrava uno stato di permanente immobilità.

Strano a dirsi, l’uomo pareva avere una certa agilità di cortesia, una volta che si moveva davvero; anche se essa suggeriva le giunture di legno di una cerimoniosa scala a libretto o di un ossequioso stendibiancheria. Sia Flambeau sia Father Brown sentirono di non aver quasi mai posato gli occhi su un uomo tanto difficile da collocare. Non era ciò che si chiama un gentiluomo; eppure aveva qualcosa della polverosa raffinatezza dello studioso; c’era in lui qualcosa di vagamente equivoco o declassato; e tuttavia il suo odore era piuttosto quello del topo di biblioteca che quello del bohémien. Era magro e pallido, con il naso appuntito e una scura barba a punta; la fronte era calva, ma i capelli dietro lunghi e lisci e stopposi; e l’espressione dei suoi occhi era quasi interamente mascherata da un paio di occhiali azzurri. Father Brown sentì di aver già incontrato qualcosa del genere in qualche luogo, e molto tempo addietro; ma non riusciva più a dargli un nome. La cianfrusaglia tra cui sedeva era in gran parte cianfrusaglia letteraria; soprattutto fasci di opuscoli del diciassettesimo secolo.

«Ho inteso bene che la signora dice,» chiese Flambeau gravemente, «che qui c’è stato un delitto?»

La signora annuì col suo capo rosso e arruffato piuttosto spazientita; a parte quei fiammeggianti riccioli da elfo aveva perduto un po’ della sua aria selvaggia; il suo abito scuro era di una certa dignità e compostezza; i suoi lineamenti erano forti e belli; e c’era in lei qualcosa che suggeriva quella doppia forza di corpo e di mente che rende potenti le donne, particolarmente in contrasto con uomini come l’uomo dagli occhiali azzurri. Nondimeno fu lui a dare l’unica risposta articolata, intervenendo con una certa buffonesca galanteria.

«È vero che la mia sventurata cognata,» spiegò, «ha or ora subìto uno shock spaventosissimo che tutti noi avremmo desiderato risparmiarle. Vorrei soltanto essere stato io stesso a fare la scoperta e ad aver sofferto unicamente l’ulteriore afflizione di recare la terribile notizia. Purtroppo fu la signora Flood in persona a trovare il suo vecchio nonno, da lungo tempo malato e costretto a letto in questo albergo, addirittura morto nel giardino; in circostanze che indicano fin troppo chiaramente violenza e aggressione. Curiose circostanze, posso dirlo, davvero curiosissime circostanze.» E tossicchiò lievemente, come per scusarsene.

Flambeau s’inchinò alla signora ed espresse le sue sincere condoglianze; poi disse all’uomo: «Credo abbiate detto, signore, di essere il cognato della signora Flood.»

«Sono il dottor Oscar Flood,» rispose l’altro. «Mio fratello, il marito di questa signora, è al momento assente sul Continente per affari, ed ella manda avanti l’albergo. Suo nonno era parzialmente paralizzato e assai avanti negli anni. Non lo si era mai visto lasciare la sua camera da letto; sicché queste straordinarie circostanze, davvero…»

«Avete mandato a chiamare un medico o la polizia?» chiese Flambeau.

«Sì,» rispose il dottor Flood, «abbiamo telefonato dopo aver fatto la terribile scoperta; ma difficilmente potranno essere qui prima di qualche ora. Questa locanda di strada sorge in luogo assai remoto. È frequentata soltanto da chi va a Casterbury o anche oltre. Così abbiamo pensato di poter chiedere la vostra preziosa assistenza finché…»

«Se dobbiamo essere di qualche assistenza,» disse Father Brown, interrompendo con maniera troppo assorta per parere scortese, «direi che faremmo meglio ad andare a guardare subito le circostanze.»

Mosse quasi meccanicamente verso la porta; e per poco non urtò un uomo che entrava spingendosi a spallate; un giovane grande e massiccio, dai capelli scuri arruffati e in disordine, che nondimeno sarebbe stato piuttosto bello se non fosse stato per una lieve deformità di un occhio, che gli dava un aspetto piuttosto sinistro.

«Che diavolo state facendo?» sbottò, «a raccontarlo a Tizio, Caio e Sempronio… almeno dovreste aspettare la polizia.»

«Ne risponderò io alla polizia,» disse Flambeau con una certa magnificenza, e un’improvvisa aria di aver preso il comando di ogni cosa. Avanzò verso l’uscio, e poiché era assai più grande del grande giovane, e i suoi baffi erano formidabili quanto le corna di un toro spagnolo, il grande giovane indietreggiò davanti a lui e ebbe l’aria sconnessa di essere cacciato fuori e lasciato indietro, mentre il gruppo usciva d’impeto nel giardino e su per il sentiero lastricato verso la piantagione di gelsi. Solo Flambeau udì il piccolo prete dire al dottore: «Non pare che ci ami davvero, vero? A proposito, chi è?»

‘His name is Dunn,’ said the doctor, with a certain restraint of manner. ‘My sister - in - law gave him the job of managing the garden, because he lost an eye in the War.’

As they went through the mulberry bushes, the landscape of the garden presented that rich yet ominous effect which is found when the land is actually brighter than the sky. In the broken sunlight from behind, the tree - tops in front of them stood up like pale green flames against a sky steadily blackening with storm, through every shade of purple and violet. The same light struck strips of the lawn and garden beds; and whatever it illuminated seemed more mysteriously sombre and secret for the light. The garden bed was dotted with tulips that looked like drops of dark blood, and some of which one might have sworn were truly black; and the line ended appropriately with a tulip tree; which Father Brown was disposed, if partly by some confused memory, to identify with what is commonly called the Judas tree. What assisted the association was the fact that there was hanging from one of the branches, like a dried fruit, the dry, thin body of an old man, with a long beard that wagged grotesquely in the wind.

There lay on it something more than the horror of darkness, the horror of sunlight; for the fitful sun painted tree and man in gay colours like a stage property; the tree was in flower and the corpse was hung with a faded peacock - green dressing - gown, and wore on its wagging head a scarlet smoking - cap. Also it had red bedroom - slippers, one of which had fallen off and lay on the grass like a blot of blood.

But neither Flambeau or Father Brown was looking at these things as yet. They were both staring at a strange object that seemed to stick out of the middle of the dead man’s shrunken figure; and which they gradually perceived to be the black but rather rusty iron hilt of a seventeenth - century sword, which had completely transfixed the body. They both remained almost motionless as they gazed at it; until the restless Dr Flood seemed to grow quite impatient with their stolidity.

‘What puzzles me most,’ he said, nervously snapping his fingers, ‘is the actual state of the body. And yet it has given me an idea already.’

Flambeau had stepped up to the tree and was studying the sword - hilt through an eye - glass. But for some odd reason, it was at that very instant that the priest in sheer perversity spun round like a teetotum, turned his back on the corpse, and looked peeringly in the very opposite direction. He was just in time to see the red head of Mrs Flood at the remote end of the garden, turned towards a dark young man, too dim with distance to be identified, who was at that moment mounting a motor - bicycle; who vanished, leaving behind him only the dying din of that vehicle. Then the woman turned and began to walk towards them across the garden, just as Father Brown turned also and began a careful inspection of the sword - hilt and the hanging corpse.

‘I understand you only found him about half an hour ago,’ said Flambeau. ‘Was there anybody about here just before that? I mean anybody in his bedroom, or that part of the house, or this part of the garden - say for an hour beforehand?’

‘No,’ said the doctor with precision. ‘That is the very tragic accident. My sister - in - law was in the pantry, which is a sort of out - house on the other side; this man Dunn was in the kitchen - garden, which is also in that direction; and I myself was poking about among the books, in a room just behind the one you found me in. There are two female servants, but one had gone to the post and the other was in the attic.’

‘And were any of these people,’ asked Flambeau, very quietly, ‘I say any of these people, at all on bad terms with the poor old gentleman?’

‘He was the object of almost universal affection,’ replied the doctor solemnly. ‘If there were any misunderstandings, they were mild and of a sort common in modern times. The old man was attached to the old religious habits; and perhaps his daughter and son - in - law had rather wider views. All that can have had nothing to do with a ghastly and fantastic assassination like this.’

‘It depends on how wide the modern views were,’ said Father Brown, ‘or how narrow.’

At this moment they heard Mrs Flood hallooing across the garden as she came, and calling her brother - in - law to her with a certain impatience. He hurried towards her and was soon out of earshot; but as he went he waved his hand apologetically and then pointed with a long finger to the ground.

‘You will find the footprints very intriguing,’ he said; with the same strange air, as of a funereal showman.

The two amateur detectives looked across at each other. ‘I find several other things intriguing,’ said Flambeau.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the priest, staring rather foolishly at the grass.

‘I was wondering,’ said Flambeau, ‘why they should hang a man by the neck till he was dead, and then take the trouble to stick him with a sword.’

‘And I was wondering,’ said Father Brown, ‘why they should kill a man with a sword thrust through his heart, and then take the trouble to hang him by the neck.’

‘Oh, you are simply being contrary,’ protested his friend. ‘I can see at a glance that they didn’t stab him alive. The body would have bled more and the wound wouldn’t have closed like that.’

‘And I could see at a glance,’ said Father Brown, peering up very awkwardly, with his short stature and short sight, ‘that they didn’t hang him alive. If you’ll look at the knot in the noose, you will see it’s tied so clumsily that a twist of rope holds it away from the neck, so that it couldn’t throttle a man at all. He was dead before they put the rope on him; and he was dead before they put the sword in him. And how was he really killed?’

«Si chiama Dunn,» disse il dottore, con una certa riservatezza di maniera. «Mia cognata gli affidò l’incarico di curare il giardino, perché aveva perso un occhio in Guerra.»

Mentre attraversavano i cespugli di gelso, il paesaggio del giardino presentava quell’effetto ricco eppur sinistro che si trova quando la terra è in realtà più luminosa del cielo. Nella luce spezzata del sole alle loro spalle, le cime degli alberi davanti a loro si ergevano come pallide fiamme verdi contro un cielo che andava sempre più annerendosi per la tempesta, attraverso ogni sfumatura di porpora e di violetto. La stessa luce colpiva strisce del prato e delle aiuole del giardino; e qualunque cosa illuminasse pareva più misteriosamente fosca e segreta a causa della luce. L’aiuola del giardino era punteggiata di tulipani che parevano gocce di cupo sangue, e di alcuni dei quali si sarebbe potuto giurare che fossero davvero neri; e la fila terminava opportunamente con un albero da tulipani; che Father Brown era incline, in parte forse per qualche confuso ricordo, a identificare con quello che comunemente si chiama l’albero di Giuda. Ad assecondare l’associazione contribuiva il fatto che da uno dei rami pendeva, come un frutto secco, il corpo secco e magro di un vecchio, con una lunga barba che dondolava grottescamente nel vento.

Su di esso giaceva qualcosa di più dell’orrore delle tenebre, l’orrore della luce del sole; poiché il sole intermittente dipingeva l’albero e l’uomo in colori vivaci come una scenografia; l’albero era in fiore e il cadavere era abbigliato di una sbiadita veste da camera verde pavone, e portava sul capo dondolante un berretto scarlatto da fumatore. Aveva anche pantofole rosse da camera, una delle quali era caduta e giaceva sull’erba come una macchia di sangue.

Ma né Flambeau né Father Brown stavano ancora guardando queste cose. Entrambi fissavano uno strano oggetto che pareva sporgere dal mezzo della figura raggrinzita del morto; e che a poco a poco s’avvidero essere l’impugnatura di ferro nera ma piuttosto arrugginita di una spada del diciassettesimo secolo, che aveva trafitto completamente il corpo. Entrambi rimasero quasi immobili mentre la contemplavano; finché l’irrequieto dottor Flood parve spazientirsi assai della loro impassibilità.

«Ciò che più mi lascia perplesso,» disse, facendo schioccare nervosamente le dita, «è lo stato effettivo del corpo. Eppure mi ha già dato un’idea.»

Flambeau si era avvicinato all’albero e stava studiando l’impugnatura della spada attraverso un monocolo. Ma per qualche strana ragione, fu proprio in quell’istante che il prete, per pura ribellione, roteò su se stesso come una trottola, voltò le spalle al cadavere e guardò scrutando nella direzione esattamente opposta. Fu appena in tempo per scorgere la testa rossa della signora Flood all’estremità remota del giardino, rivolta verso un giovane bruno, troppo indistinto per la distanza da poter essere riconosciuto, che in quel momento montava su una motocicletta; il quale svanì, lasciandosi dietro soltanto il fragore morente di quel veicolo. Poi la donna si voltò e cominciò a camminare verso di loro attraverso il giardino, proprio mentre anche Father Brown si voltava e cominciava una attenta ispezione dell’impugnatura della spada e del cadavere appeso.

«Ho capito che l’avete trovato soltanto una mezz’ora fa,» disse Flambeau. «C’era qualcuno qui intorno poco prima? Voglio dire qualcuno nella sua camera da letto, o in quella parte della casa, o in questa parte del giardino… diciamo per un’ora prima?»

«No,» disse il dottore con precisione. «Questo è proprio il tragico accidente. Mia cognata era nella dispensa, che è una specie di casotto annesso sull’altro lato; costui, il Dunn, era nell’orto del giardino, che è anch’esso in quella direzione; e io stesso frugavo tra i libri, in una stanza proprio dietro quella in cui mi avete trovato. Ci sono due domestiche, ma una era andata alla posta e l’altra era in soffitta.»

«E qualcuna di queste persone,» chiese Flambeau, molto sommessamente, «dico una qualsiasi di queste persone, era in cattivi rapporti col povero vecchio signore?»

«Egli era oggetto di un affetto pressoché universale,» rispose il dottore solennemente. «Se c’erano incomprensioni, erano miti e di un genere comune ai tempi moderni. Il vecchio era attaccato alle antiche abitudini religiose; e forse sua figlia e suo genero avevano vedute alquanto più larghe. Tutto ciò non può aver avuto nulla a che fare con un assassinio orribile e fantastico come questo.»

«Dipende da quanto larghe fossero le vedute moderne,» disse Father Brown, «o da quanto strette.»

In quel momento udirono la signora Flood chiamare a gran voce attraverso il giardino mentre veniva, invitando a sé il cognato con una certa impazienza. Egli si affrettò verso di lei e fu presto fuori portata d’orecchio; ma mentre andava agitò la mano in segno di scusa e poi indicò col lungo dito il terreno.

«Troverete le impronte assai intriganti,» disse; con la stessa strana aria, come di un imbonitore funebre.

I due investigatori dilettanti si guardarono l’un l’altro. «Trovo intriganti parecchie altre cose,» disse Flambeau.

«Oh, sì,» disse il prete, fissando l’erba con aria piuttosto sciocca.

«Mi domandavo,» disse Flambeau, «perché mai si dovrebbe impiccare un uomo per il collo fino a farlo morire, e poi darsi la pena di trafiggerlo con una spada.»

«E io mi domandavo,» disse Father Brown, «perché mai si dovrebbe uccidere un uomo con una spada conficcata nel cuore, e poi darsi la pena di impiccarlo per il collo.»

«Oh, tu ti stai semplicemente mettendo di traverso,» protestò l’amico. «Vedo a colpo d’occhio che non l’hanno pugnalato da vivo. Il corpo avrebbe sanguinato di più e la ferita non si sarebbe chiusa in quel modo.»

«E io potrei vedere a colpo d’occhio,» disse Father Brown, scrutando all’insù molto goffamente, con la sua bassa statura e la sua corta vista, «che non l’hanno impiccato da vivo. Se guardi il nodo del cappio, vedrai che è annodato così maldestramente che un giro di corda lo tiene discosto dal collo, sicché non potrebbe strozzare un uomo per nulla. Era morto prima che gli mettessero la corda addosso; ed era morto prima che gli mettessero la spada dentro. E come fu realmente ucciso?»

‘I think,’ remarked the other, ‘that we’d better go back to the house and have a look at his bedroom - and other things.’

‘So we will,’ said Father Brown. ‘But among other things perhaps we had better have a look at these footprints. Better begin at the other end, I think, by his window. Well, there are no footprints on the paved path, as there might be; but then again there mightn’t be. Well, here is the lawn just under his bedroom window. And here are his footprints plain enough.’

He blinked ominously at the footprints; and then began carefully retracing his path towards the tree, every now and then ducking in an undignified manner to look at something on the ground. Eventually he returned to Flambeau and said in a chatty manner:

‘Well, do you know the story that is written there very plainly? Though it’s not exactly a plain story.’

‘I wouldn’t be content to call it plain,’ said Flambeau. ‘I should call it quite ugly - ’

‘Well,’ said Father Brown, ‘the story that is stamped quite plainly on the earth, with exact moulds of the old man’s slippers, is this. The aged paralytic leapt from the window and ran down the beds parallel to the path, quite eager for all the fun of being strangled and stabbed; so eager that he hopped on one leg out of sheer lightheartedness; and even occasionally turned cartwheels - ’

‘Stop!’ cried Flambeau, angrily. ‘What the hell is all this hellish pantomime?’

Father Brown merely raised his eyebrows and gestured mildly towards the hieroglyphs in the dust. ‘About half the way there’s only the mark of one slipper; and in some places the mark of a hand planted all by itself.’

‘Couldn’t he have limped and then fallen?’ asked Flambeau.

Father Brown shook his head. ‘At least he’d have tried to use his hands and feet, or knees and elbows, in getting up. There are no other marks there of any kind. Of course the flagged path is quite near, and there are no marks on that; though there might be on the soil between the cracks; it’s a crazy pavement.’

‘By God, it’s a crazy pavement; and a crazy garden; and a crazy story!’ And Flambeau looked gloomily across the gloomy and storm - stricken garden, across which the crooked patchwork paths did indeed give a queer aptness to the quaint old English adjective.

‘And now,’ said Father Brown, ‘let us go up and look at his room.’ They went in by a door not far from the bedroom window; and the priest paused a moment to look at an ordinary garden broomstick, for sweeping up leaves, that was leaning against the wall. ‘Do you see that?’

‘It’s a broomstick,’ said Flambeau, with solid irony.

‘It’s a blunder,’ said Father Brown; ‘the first blunder that I’ve seen in this curious plot.’

They mounted the stairs and entered the old man’s bedroom; and a glance at it made fairly clear the main facts, both about the foundation and disunion of the family. Father Brown had felt from the first that he was in what was, or had been, a Catholic household; but was, at least partly, inhabited by lapsed or very loose Catholics. The pictures and images in the grandfather’s room made it clear that what positive piety remained had been practically confined to him; and that his kindred had, for some reason or other, gone Pagan. But he agreed that this was a hopelessly inadequate explanation even of an ordinary murder; let alone such a very extraordinary murder as this. ‘Hang it all,’ he muttered, ‘the murder is really the least extra - ordinary part of it.’ And even as he used the chance phrase, a slow light began to dawn upon his face.

Flambeau had seated himself on a chair by the little table which stood beside the dead man’s bed. He was frowning thoughtfully at three or four white pills or pellets that lay in a small tray beside a bottle of water.

‘The murderer or murderess,’ said Flambeau, ‘had some incomprehensible reason or other for wanting us to think the dead man was strangled or stabbed or both. He was not strangled or stabbed or anything of the kind. Why did they want to suggest it? The most logical explanation is that he died in some particular way which would, in itself, suggest a connection with some particular person. Suppose, for instance, he was poisoned. And suppose somebody is involved who would naturally look more like a poisoner than anybody else.’

‘After all,’ said Father Brown softly, ‘our friend in the blue spectacles is a doctor.’

‘I’m going to examine these pills pretty carefully,’ went on Flambeau. ‘I don’t want to lose them, though. They look as if they were soluble in water.’

‘It may take you some time to do anything scientific with them,’ said the priest, ‘and the police doctor may be here before that. So I should certainly advise you not to lose them. That is, if you are going to wait for the police doctor.’

‘I am going to stay here till I have solved this problem,’ said Flambeau.

‘Then you will stay here for ever,’ said Father Brown, looking calmly out of the window. ‘I don’t think I shall stay in this room, anyhow.’

‘Do you mean that I shan’t solve the problem?’ asked his friend. ‘Why shouldn’t I solve the problem?’

‘Because it isn’t soluble in water. No, nor in blood,’ said the priest; and he went down the dark stairs into the darkening garden. There he saw again what he had already seen from the window.

The heat and weight and obscurity of the thunderous sky seemed to be pressing yet more closely on the landscape; the clouds had conquered the sun which, above, in a narrowing clearance, stood up paler than the moon. There was a thrill of thunder in the air, but now no more stirring of wind or breeze; and even the colours of the garden seemed only like richer shades of darkness. But one colour still glowed with a certain dusky vividness; and that was the red hair of the woman of that house, who was standing with a sort of rigidity, staring, with her hands thrust up into her hair. That scene of eclipse, with something deeper in his own doubts about its significance, brought to the surface the memory of haunting and mystical lines; and he found himself murmuring: ‘A secret spot, as savage and enchanted as e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted by woman wailing for her demon lover.’ His muttering became more agitated. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners … that’s what it is; that’s terribly like what it is; woman wailing for her demon lover.’

«Penso,» osservò l’altro, «che faremmo meglio a tornare alla casa e a dare un’occhiata alla sua camera da letto… e ad altre cose.»

«Così faremo,» disse Father Brown. «Ma tra le altre cose forse faremmo meglio a dare un’occhiata a queste impronte. Meglio cominciare dall’altro capo, credo, dalla sua finestra. Ecco, non ci sono impronte sul sentiero lastricato, come potrebbero esserci; ma d’altra parte potrebbero anche non esserci. Ecco, qui c’è il prato proprio sotto la finestra della sua camera. E qui ci sono le sue impronte abbastanza chiare.»

Ammiccò sinistramente alle impronte; e poi cominciò a ripercorrere accuratamente il proprio cammino verso l’albero, ogni tanto chinandosi in maniera poco dignitosa per guardare qualcosa a terra. Alla fine tornò da Flambeau e disse con tono chiacchierino:

«Ecco, conosci la storia che è scritta lì in modo molto chiaro? Sebbene non sia esattamente una storia chiara.»

«Non mi accontenterei di chiamarla chiara,» disse Flambeau. «La chiamerei alquanto brutta…»

«Ecco,» disse Father Brown, «la storia che è impressa in modo chiarissimo sul terreno, con gli stampi esatti delle pantofole del vecchio, è questa. Il vecchio paralitico balzò dalla finestra e corse giù lungo le aiuole parallele al sentiero, tutto smanioso di godersi il divertimento di essere strangolato e pugnalato; tanto smanioso che saltellò su una gamba per pura spensieratezza; e persino ogni tanto fece qualche capriola…»

«Basta!» gridò Flambeau, adirato. «Che diavolo è tutta questa infernale pantomima?»

Father Brown si limitò ad alzare le sopracciglia e a indicare mitemente i geroglifici nella polvere. «Per circa metà del cammino c’è soltanto l’impronta di una pantofola; e in alcuni punti l’impronta di una mano posata tutta sola.»

«Non potrebbe aver zoppicato e poi essere caduto?» chiese Flambeau.

Father Brown scosse il capo. «Come minimo avrebbe cercato di usare le mani e i piedi, o le ginocchia e i gomiti, per rialzarsi. Non ci sono altre impronte di alcun genere. Naturalmente il sentiero lastricato è assai vicino, e su di esso non ci sono impronte; sebbene potrebbero essercene sulla terra fra le fessure; è un lastricato sconnesso.»

«Per Dio, è un lastricato sconnesso; e un giardino sconnesso; e una storia sconnessa!» E Flambeau guardò cupamente attraverso il cupo giardino flagellato dalla tempesta, attraverso il quale i sentieri storti a mosaico davano davvero una bizzarra aderenza al bizzarro vecchio aggettivo inglese.

«E ora,» disse Father Brown, «saliamo a guardare la sua stanza.» Entrarono per una porta non lontana dalla finestra della camera; e il prete si fermò un istante a guardare un’ordinaria scopa da giardino, per spazzare le foglie, appoggiata al muro. «Vedi quella?»

«È una scopa,» disse Flambeau, con solida ironia.

«È un errore,» disse Father Brown; «il primo errore che ho visto in questa curiosa trama.»

Salirono le scale ed entrarono nella camera del vecchio; e un’occhiata ad essa rese abbastanza chiari i fatti principali, sia riguardo al fondamento sia riguardo alla disunione della famiglia. Father Brown aveva sentito fin dal principio di trovarsi in quella che era, o era stata, una casa cattolica; ma che era abitata, almeno in parte, da cattolici decaduti o assai rilassati. I quadri e le immagini nella stanza del nonno rendevano chiaro che quella pietà positiva che restava era rimasta praticamente confinata in lui; e che i suoi congiunti, per una ragione o per l’altra, si erano fatti pagani. Ma egli convenne che questa era una spiegazione disperatamente inadeguata persino di un delitto ordinario; e ancor meno di un delitto tanto straordinario come questo, figuriamoci. «Al diavolo tutto,» borbottò, «il delitto è in realtà la parte meno straordinaria di questa faccenda.» E proprio mentre usava quella frase casuale, una lenta luce cominciò ad albeggiare sul suo volto.

Flambeau si era seduto su una sedia accanto al tavolino che stava presso il letto del morto. Aggrottava le sopracciglia, assorto, davanti a tre o quattro pillole o pastiglie bianche che giacevano in un piccolo vassoio accanto a una bottiglia d’acqua.

«L’assassino o l’assassina,» disse Flambeau, «aveva una qualche incomprensibile ragione per volerci far credere che il morto fosse strangolato o pugnalato o entrambe le cose. Non fu strangolato né pugnalato né nulla del genere. Perché vollero suggerirlo? La spiegazione più logica è che egli sia morto in qualche modo particolare che, di per sé, suggerirebbe un legame con qualche persona particolare. Supponi, per esempio, che sia stato avvelenato. E supponi che sia coinvolto qualcuno che naturalmente somiglierebbe più a un avvelenatore di chiunque altro.»

«Dopotutto,» disse Father Brown sommessamente, «il nostro amico dagli occhiali azzurri è un dottore.»

«Esaminerò queste pillole con parecchia cura,» proseguì Flambeau. «Non voglio perderle, però. Hanno l’aria di essere solubili in acqua.»

«Potrebbe volerci un po’ di tempo per farci qualcosa di scientifico,» disse il prete, «e il medico della polizia potrebbe essere qui prima di allora. Sicché certamente ti consiglierei di non perderle. Cioè, se hai intenzione di aspettare il medico della polizia.»

«Ho intenzione di restare qui finché non avrò risolto questo problema,» disse Flambeau.

«Allora resterai qui per sempre,» disse Father Brown, guardando placidamente fuori dalla finestra. «Io comunque non credo che resterò in questa stanza.»

«Vuoi dire che non risolverò il problema?» chiese l’amico. «Perché non dovrei risolvere il problema?»

«Perché non è solubile in acqua. No, e nemmeno nel sangue,» disse il prete; e scese le scale buie nel giardino che s’oscurava. Là vide di nuovo ciò che aveva già visto dalla finestra.

Il calore e il peso e l’oscurità del cielo tempestoso parevano premere ancor più da presso sul paesaggio; le nuvole avevano vinto il sole che, in alto, in uno squarcio che si restringeva, si ergeva più pallido della luna. C’era un fremito di tuono nell’aria, ma ormai nessun ulteriore moto di vento o di brezza; e persino i colori del giardino parevano soltanto sfumature più ricche dell’oscurità. Ma un colore ancora ardeva di una certa fosca vividezza; ed era la chioma rossa della donna di quella casa, che stava ritta in una sorta di rigidità, fissando, con le mani cacciate su tra i capelli. Quella scena di eclisse, con qualcosa di più profondo nei suoi stessi dubbi sul suo significato, fece affiorare alla superficie il ricordo di versi ossessivi e mistici; e si sorprese a mormorare: «Un luogo segreto, selvaggio e incantato come mai altro, sotto una luna calante, fu infestato da donna che piange il suo demone amante.» Il suo borbottio si fece più agitato. «Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori… è questo; è terribilmente simile a ciò che è; donna che piange il suo demone amante.»

He was hesitant and almost shaky as he approached the woman; but he spoke with his common composure. He was gazing at her very steadily, as he told her earnestly that she must not be morbid because of the mere accidental accessories of the tragedy, with all their mad ugliness. ‘The pictures in your grandfather’s room were truer to him than that ugly picture that we saw,’ he said gravely. ‘Something tells me he was a good man; and it does not matter what his murderers did with his body.’

‘Oh, I am sick of his holy pictures and statues!’ she said, turning her head away. ‘Why don’t they defend themselves, if they are what you say they are? But rioters can knock off the Blessed Virgin’s head and nothing happens to them. Oh, what’s the good? You can’t blame us, you daren’t blame us, if we’ve found out that Man is stronger than God.’

‘Surely,’ said Father Brown very gently, ‘it is not generous to make even God’s patience with us a point against Him.’

‘God may be patient and Man impatient,’ she answered, ‘and suppose we like the impatience better. You call it sacrilege; but you can’t stop it.’

Father Brown gave a curious little jump. ‘Sacrilege!’ he said; and suddenly turned back to the doorway with a new brisk air of decision. At the same moment Flambeau appeared in the doorway, pale with excitement, with a screw of paper in his hands. Father Brown had already opened his mouth to speak, but his impetuous friend spoke before him.

‘I’m on the track at last!’ cried Flambeau. ‘These pills look the same, but they’re really different. And do you know that, at the very moment I spotted them, that one - eyed brute of a gardener thrust his white face into the room; and he was carrying a horse - pistol. I knocked it out of his hand and threw him down the stairs, but I begin to understand everything. If I stay here another hour or two, I shall finish my job.’

‘Then you will not finish it,’ said the priest, with a ring in his voice very rare in him indeed. ‘We shall not stay here another hour. We shall not stay here another minute. We must leave this place at once!’

‘What!’ cried the astounded Flambeau. ‘Just when we are getting near the truth! Why, you can tell that we’re getting near the truth because they are afraid of us.’

Father Brown looked at him with a stony and inscrutable face, and said: ‘They are not afraid of us when we are here. They will only be afraid of us when we are not here.’

They had both become conscious that the rather fidgety figure of Dr Flood was hovering in the lurid haze; now it precipitated itself forward with the wildest gestures.

‘Stop! Listen!’ cried the agitated doctor. ‘I have discovered the truth!’

‘Then you can explain it to your own police,’ said Father Brown, briefly. ‘They ought to be coming soon. But we must be going.’

The doctor seemed thrown into a whirlpool of emotions, eventually rising to the surface again with a despairing cry. He spread out his arms like a cross, barring their way.

‘Be it so!’ he cried. ‘I will not deceive you now, by saying I have discovered the truth. I will only confess the truth.’

‘Then you can confess it to your own priest,’ said Father Brown, and strode towards the garden gate, followed by his staring friend. Before he reached the gate, another figure had rushed athwart him like the wind; and Dunn the gardener was shouting at him some unintelligible derision at detectives who were running away from their job. Then the priest ducked just in time to dodge a blow from the horse - pistol, wielded like a club. But Dunn was just not in time to dodge a blow from the fist of Flambeau, which was like the club of Hercules. The two left Mr Dunn spread flat behind them on the path, and, passing out of the gate, went out and got into their car in silence. Flambeau only asked one brief question and Father Brown only answered: ‘Casterbury.’

At last, after a long silence, the priest observed: ‘I could almost believe the storm belonged only to that garden, and came out of a storm in the soul.’

‘My friend,’ said Flambeau. ‘I have known you a long time, and when you show certain signs of certainty, I follow your lead. But I hope you are not going to tell me that you took me away from that fascinating job, because you did not like the atmosphere.’

‘Well, it was certainly a terrible atmosphere,’ replied Father Brown, calmly. ‘Dreadful and passionate and oppressive. And the most dreadful thing about it was this - that there was no hate in it at all.’

‘Somebody,’ suggested Flambeau, ‘seems to have had a slight dislike of grandpapa.’

‘Nobody had any dislike of anybody,’ said Father Brown with a groan. ‘That was the dreadful thing in that darkness. It was love.’

‘Curious way of expressing love - to strangle somebody and stick him with a sword,’ observed the other.

‘It was love,’ repeated the priest, ‘and it filled the house with terror.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ protested Flambeau, ‘that that beautiful woman is in love with that spider in spectacles.’

‘No,’ said Father Brown and groaned again. ‘She is in love with her husband. It is ghastly.’

‘It is a state of things that I have often heard you recommend,’ replied Flambeau. ‘You cannot call that lawless love.’

‘Not lawless in that sense,’ answered Father Brown; then he turned sharply on his elbow and spoke with a new warmth: ‘Do you think I don’t know that the love of a man and a woman was the first command of God and is glorious for ever? Are you one of those idiots who think we don’t admire love and marriage? Do I need to be told of the Garden of Eden or the wine of Cana? It is just because the strength in the thing was the strength of God, that it rages with that awful energy even when it breaks loose from God. When the Garden becomes a jungle, but still a glorious jungle; when the second fermentation turns the wine of Cana into the vinegar of Calvary. Do you think I don’t know all that?’

Era esitante e quasi malfermo mentre si avvicinava alla donna; ma parlò con la sua consueta compostezza. La fissava con grande fermezza, mentre le diceva con premura che ella non doveva lasciarsi prendere dal morboso a causa dei meri accessori accidentali della tragedia, con tutta la loro folle bruttezza. «I quadri nella stanza di suo nonno erano più veri a lui di quel brutto quadro che abbiamo visto,» disse gravemente. «Qualcosa mi dice che egli era un buon uomo; e non importa che cosa i suoi assassini abbiano fatto del suo corpo.»

«Oh, sono stufa dei suoi quadri sacri e delle sue statue!» disse ella, voltando via il capo. «Perché non si difendono, se sono ciò che voi dite che sono? Ma i rivoltosi possono staccare la testa alla Beata Vergine e a loro non accade nulla. Oh, a che serve? Non potete biasimarci, non osate biasimarci, se abbiamo scoperto che l’Uomo è più forte di Dio.»

«Certamente,» disse Father Brown con grande dolcezza, «non è generoso fare persino della pazienza di Dio verso di noi un capo d’accusa contro di Lui.»

«Dio può essere paziente e l’Uomo impaziente,» rispose ella, «e supponete che a noi piaccia di più l’impazienza. Voi lo chiamate sacrilegio; ma non potete fermarlo.»

Father Brown fece un curioso piccolo sussulto. «Sacrilegio!» disse; e d’improvviso si voltò di nuovo verso l’uscio con una nuova aria svelta di decisione. Nello stesso momento Flambeau apparve sulla soglia, pallido d’eccitazione, con un cartoccio di carta in mano. Father Brown aveva già aperto la bocca per parlare, ma il suo impetuoso amico parlò prima di lui.

«Sono finalmente sulla pista!» gridò Flambeau. «Queste pillole sembrano uguali, ma sono in realtà diverse. E sai che, proprio nel momento in cui le ho scoperte, quel bruto di giardiniere con un occhio solo cacciò la sua faccia bianca dentro la stanza; e portava una pistola da arcione. Gliela feci saltare di mano e lo scaraventai giù per le scale, ma comincio a capire ogni cosa. Se resto qui un’altra ora o due, porterò a termine il mio lavoro.»

«Allora non lo porterai a termine,» disse il prete, con una risonanza nella voce assai rara in lui davvero. «Non resteremo qui un’altra ora. Non resteremo qui un altro minuto. Dobbiamo lasciare questo luogo all’istante!»

«Cosa!» gridò lo sbalordito Flambeau. «Proprio ora che ci avviciniamo alla verità! Ma se puoi ben dire che ci avviciniamo alla verità proprio dal fatto che hanno paura di noi.»

Father Brown lo guardò con volto di pietra e imperscrutabile, e disse: «Non hanno paura di noi quando siamo qui. Avranno paura di noi soltanto quando non saremo qui.»

Entrambi si erano accorti che la figura piuttosto agitata del dottor Flood aleggiava nella foschia sinistra; ora essa si precipitò in avanti con i gesti più sfrenati.

«Fermatevi! Ascoltate!» gridò l’agitato dottore. «Ho scoperto la verità!»

«Allora potrete spiegarla alla vostra polizia,» disse Father Brown, brevemente. «Dovrebbe arrivare presto. Ma noi dobbiamo andare.»

Il dottore parve gettato in un vortice di emozioni, per riemergere infine alla superficie con un grido disperato. Spalancò le braccia come una croce, sbarrando loro il passo.

«E sia!» gridò. «Non v’ingannerò ora, dicendo di aver scoperto la verità. Confesserò soltanto la verità.»

«Allora potrete confessarla al vostro prete,» disse Father Brown, e s’incamminò a grandi passi verso il cancello del giardino, seguito dal suo amico che lo fissava attonito. Prima che raggiungesse il cancello, un’altra figura gli era balzata di traverso come il vento; ed era Dunn il giardiniere che gli gridava dietro qualche inintelligibile scherno agli investigatori che scappavano dal proprio lavoro. Allora il prete si chinò appena in tempo per schivare un colpo della pistola da arcione, brandita come una clava. Ma Dunn non fu appena in tempo per schivare un colpo del pugno di Flambeau, che era come la clava di Ercole. I due lasciarono il signor Dunn steso lungo disteso dietro di loro sul sentiero, e, passando fuori dal cancello, uscirono e salirono nella loro automobile in silenzio. Flambeau fece soltanto una breve domanda e Father Brown rispose soltanto: «Casterbury.»

Alla fine, dopo un lungo silenzio, il prete osservò: «Potrei quasi credere che la tempesta appartenesse soltanto a quel giardino, e venisse da una tempesta nell’anima.»

«Amico mio,» disse Flambeau. «Ti conosco da lungo tempo, e quando mostri certi segni di certezza, seguo la tua guida. Ma spero che tu non stia per dirmi che mi hai portato via da quel lavoro affascinante perché non ti piaceva l’atmosfera.»

«Ecco, era certamente un’atmosfera terribile,» rispose Father Brown, con calma. «Spaventosa e appassionata e opprimente. E la cosa più spaventosa di essa era questa: che non vi era in essa alcun odio.»

«Qualcuno,» suggerì Flambeau, «pare avesse una lieve antipatia per il nonno.»

«Nessuno aveva alcuna antipatia per nessuno,» disse Father Brown con un gemito. «Questa era la cosa spaventosa in quelle tenebre. Era amore.»

«Curioso modo di esprimere l’amore… strangolare qualcuno e trafiggerlo con una spada,» osservò l’altro.

«Era amore,» ripeté il prete, «e riempiva la casa di terrore.»

«Non dirmi,» protestò Flambeau, «che quella bella donna è innamorata di quel ragno con gli occhiali.»

«No,» disse Father Brown e gemette di nuovo. «È innamorata di suo marito. È spaventoso.»

«È uno stato di cose che ti ho spesso sentito raccomandare,» replicò Flambeau. «Non puoi chiamarlo amore fuorilegge.»

«Non fuorilegge in quel senso,» rispose Father Brown; poi si voltò di scatto sul gomito e parlò con nuovo calore: «Credi che io non sappia che l’amore di un uomo e di una donna fu il primo comandamento di Dio ed è glorioso per sempre? Sei uno di quegli idioti che credono che noi non ammiriamo l’amore e il matrimonio? Ho forse bisogno che mi si parli del Giardino dell’Eden o del vino di Cana? È proprio perché la forza che era in quella cosa era la forza di Dio, che essa infuria con quell’energia tremenda persino quando si scioglie da Dio. Quando il Giardino diventa una giungla, ma pur sempre una giungla gloriosa; quando la seconda fermentazione muta il vino di Cana nell’aceto del Calvario. Credi che io non sappia tutto questo?»

‘I’m sure you do,’ said Flambeau, ‘but I don’t yet know much about my problem of the murder.’

‘The murder cannot be solved,’ said Father Brown.

‘And why not?’ demanded his friend.

‘Because there is no murder to solve,’ said Father Brown.

Flambeau was silent with sheer surprise; and it was his friend who resumed in a quiet tone:

‘I’ll tell you a curious thing. I talked with that woman when she was wild with grief; but she never said anything about the murder. She never mentioned murder, or even alluded to murder. What she did mention repeatedly was sacrilege.’ Then, with another jerk of verbal disconnection, he added: ‘Have you ever heard of Tiger Tyrone?’

‘Haven’t I!’ cried Flambeau. ‘Why, that’s the very man who’s supposed to be after the reliquary, and whom I’ve been commissioned specially to circumvent. He’s the most violent and daring gangster who ever visited this country; Irish, of course, but the sort that goes quite crazily anti - clerical. Perhaps he’s dabbled in a little diabolism in these secret societies; anyhow, he has a macabre taste for playing all sorts of wild tricks that look wickeder than they are. Otherwise he’s not the wickedest; he seldom kills, and never for cruelty; but he loves doing anything to shock people, especially his own people; robbing churches or digging up skeletons or what not.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, ‘it all fits in. I ought to have seen it all long before.’

‘I don’t see how we could have seen anything, after only an hour’s investigation,’ said the detective defensively.

‘I ought to have seen it before there was anything to investigate,’ said the priest. ‘I ought to have known it before you arrived this morning.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘It only shows how wrong voices sound on the telephone,’ said Father Brown reflectively. ‘I heard all three stages of the thing this morning; and I thought they were trifles. First, a woman rang me up and asked me to go to that inn as soon as possible. What did that mean? Of course it meant that the old grandfather was dying. Then she rang up to say that I needn’t go, after all. What did that mean? Of course it meant that the old grandfather was dead. He had died quite peaceably in his bed; probably heart failure from sheer old age. And then she rang up a third time and said I was to go, after all. What did that mean? Ah, that is rather more interesting!’

He went on after a moment’s pause: ‘Tiger Tyrone, whose wife worships him, took hold of one of his mad ideas, and yet it was a crafty idea, too. He had just heard that you were tracking him down, that you knew him and his methods and were coming to save the reliquary; he may have heard that I have sometimes been of some assistance. He wanted to stop us on the road; and his trick for doing it was to stage a murder. It was a pretty horrible thing to do; but it wasn’t a murder. Probably he bullied his wife with an air of brutal common sense, saying he could only escape penal servitude by using a dead body that couldn’t suffer anything from such use. Anyhow, his wife would do anything for him; but she felt all the unnatural hideousness of that hanging masquerade; and that’s why she talked about sacrilege. She was thinking of the desecration of the relic; but also of the desecration of the death - bed. The brother’s one of those shoddy “scientific” rebels who tinker with dud bombs; an idealist run to seed. But he’s devoted to Tiger; and so is the gardener. Perhaps it’s a point in his favour that so many people seem devoted to him.

‘There was one little point that set me guessing very early. Among the old books the doctor was turning over, was a bundle of seventeeth - century pamphlets; and I caught one title: True Declaration of the Trial and Execution of My Lord Stafford. Now Stafford was executed in the Popish Plot business, which began with one of history’s detective stories; the death of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey. Godfrey was found dead in a ditch, and part of the mystery was that he had marks of strangulation, but was also transfixed with his own sword. I thought at once that somebody in the house might have got the idea from here. But he couldn’t have wanted it as a way of committing a murder. He can only have wanted it as a way of creating a mystery. Then I saw that this applied to all the other outrageous details. They were devilish enough; but it wasn’t mere devilry; there was a rag of excuse; because they had to make the mystery as contradictory and complicated as possible, to make sure that we should be a long time solving it - or rather seeing through it. So they dragged the poor old man off his deathbed and made the corpse hop and turn cartwheels and do everything that it couldn’t have done. They had to give us an Insoluble Problem. They swept their own tracks off the path, leaving the broom. Fortunately we did see through it in time.’

‘You saw through it in time,’ said Flambeau. ‘I might have lingered a little longer over the second trail they left, sprinkled with assorted pills.’

‘Well, anyhow, we got away,’ said Father Brown, comfortably.

‘And that, I presume,’ said Flambeau, ‘is the reason I am driving at this rate along the road to Casterbury.’

That night in the monastery and church at Casterbury there were events calculated to stagger monastic seclusion. The reliquary of St Dorothy, in a casket gorgeous with gold and rubies, was temporarily placed in a side room near the chapel of the monastery, to be brought in with a procession for a special service at the end of Benediction. It was guarded for the moment by one monk, who watched it in a tense and vigilant manner; for he and his brethren knew all about the shadow of peril from the prowling of Tiger Tyrone. Thus it was that the monk was on his feet in a flash, when he saw one of the low - latticed windows beginning to open and a dark object drawling like a black serpent through the crack. Rushing across, he gripped it and found it was the arm and sleeve of a man, terminating with a handsome cuff and a smart dark - grey glove. Laying hold of it, he shouted for help, and even as he did so, a man darted into the room through the door behind his back and snatched the casket he had left behind him on the table. Almost at the same instant, the arm wedged in the window came away in his hand, and he stood holding the stuffed limb of a dummy.

Tiger Tyron had played that trick before, but to the monk it was a novelty. Fortunately, there was at least one person to whom the Tiger’s tricks were not a novelty; and that person appeared with militant moustaches, gigantically framed in the doorway, at the very moment when the Tiger turned to escape by it. Flambeau and Tiger Tyrone looked at each other with steady eyes and exchanged something that was almost like a military salute.

Meanwhile Father Brown had slipped into the chapel, to say a prayer for several persons involved in these unseemly events. But he was rather smiling than otherwise, and, to tell the truth, he was not by any means hopeless about Mr Tyrone and his deplorable family; but rather more hopeful than he was for many more respectable people. Then his thoughts widened with the grander perspectives of the place and the occasion. Against black and green marbles at the end of the rather rococo chapel, the dark - red vestments of the festival of a martyr were in their turn a background for a fierier red; a red like red - hot coals; the rubies of the reliquary; the roses of St Dorothy. And he had again a thought to throw back to the strange events of that day, and the woman who had shuddered at the sacrilege she had helped. After all, he thought, St Dorothy also had a Pagan lover; but he had not dominated her or destroyed her faith. She had died free and for the truth; and then had sent him roses from Paradise.

He raised his eyes and saw through the veil of incense smoke and of twinkling lights that Benediction was drawing to its end while the procession waited. The sense of accumulated riches of time and tradition pressed past him like a crowd moving in rank after rank, through unending centuries; and high above them all, like a garland of unfading flames, like the sun of our mortal midnight, the great monstrance blazed against the darkness of the vaulted shadows, as it blazed against the black enigma of the universe. For some are convinced that this enigma also is an Insoluble Problem. And others have equal certitude that it has but one solution.

«Sono certo che lo sai,» disse Flambeau, «ma io non so ancora granché sul mio problema del delitto.»

«Il delitto non può essere risolto,» disse Father Brown.

«E perché no?» domandò l’amico.

«Perché non c’è alcun delitto da risolvere,» disse Father Brown.

Flambeau rimase muto per pura sorpresa; e fu l’amico a riprendere con tono quieto:

«Ti dirò una cosa curiosa. Ho parlato con quella donna quando era fuori di sé dal dolore; ma non disse mai nulla sul delitto. Non menzionò mai il delitto, né vi alluse nemmeno. Ciò che invece menzionò ripetutamente fu il sacrilegio.» Poi, con un altro scarto di sconnessione verbale, aggiunse: «Hai mai sentito parlare di Tiger Tyrone?»

«Se ne ho sentito parlare!» gridò Flambeau. «Ma se è proprio l’uomo che si suppone stia dando la caccia al reliquiario, e che mi hanno incaricato appositamente di sventare. È il più violento e temerario dei gangster che abbiano mai visitato questo paese; irlandese, naturalmente, ma di quelli che diventano follemente anticlericali. Forse ha civettato un poco col diabolismo in quelle società segrete; comunque sia, ha un gusto macabro per giocare ogni sorta di tiri selvaggi che paiono più malvagi di quanto siano. Per il resto non è il più malvagio; uccide di rado, e mai per crudeltà; ma adora fare qualsiasi cosa scandalizzi la gente, specialmente la sua gente; svaligiare chiese o dissotterrare scheletri o che so io.»

«Sì,» disse Father Brown, «tutto quadra. Avrei dovuto vederlo tutto molto prima.»

«Non vedo come avremmo potuto vedere alcunché, dopo appena un’ora d’indagine,» disse il detective sulla difensiva.

«Avrei dovuto vederlo prima che ci fosse qualcosa da indagare,» disse il prete. «Avrei dovuto saperlo prima che tu arrivassi stamattina.»

«Che diavolo vuoi dire?»

«Mostra soltanto quanto suonino false le voci al telefono,» disse Padre Brown pensosamente. «Ho udito stamattina tutti e tre gli stadi della faccenda; e ho pensato che fossero inezie. Primo, una donna mi chiamò e mi chiese di andare a quella locanda al più presto possibile. Che cosa significava? Naturalmente significava che il vecchio nonno stava morendo. Poi chiamò per dire che, dopotutto, non avevo bisogno di andare. Che cosa significava? Naturalmente significava che il vecchio nonno era morto. Era spirato del tutto in pace nel suo letto; probabilmente un collasso cardiaco per pura vecchiaia. E poi chiamò una terza volta e disse che, dopotutto, dovevo andare. Che cosa significava? Ah, questo è alquanto più interessante!»

Proseguì dopo un momento di pausa: «Tiger Tyrone, la cui moglie lo adora, si lasciò prendere da una delle sue idee folli, e tuttavia era anche un’idea astuta. Aveva appena saputo che tu gli stavi dando la caccia, che conoscevi lui e i suoi metodi e che venivi a salvare il reliquiario; può aver saputo che io talvolta sono stato di qualche aiuto. Voleva fermarci lungo la strada; e il suo trucco per farlo fu di inscenare un delitto. Fu una cosa piuttosto orribile da fare; ma non fu un delitto. Probabilmente tiranneggiò sua moglie con un’aria di brutale buon senso, dicendo che poteva sfuggire ai lavori forzati soltanto usando un corpo morto che da un tale uso non poteva soffrire nulla. Comunque sia, sua moglie avrebbe fatto qualsiasi cosa per lui; ma ella sentiva tutta l’innaturale mostruosità di quella mascherata pendente; ed è per questo che parlava di sacrilegio. Pensava alla profanazione della reliquia; ma anche alla profanazione del letto di morte. Il fratello è uno di quei ribelli scadenti “scientifici” che armeggiano con bombe difettose; un idealista andato a male. Ma è devoto a Tiger; e così pure il giardiniere. Forse è un punto a suo favore che tanta gente sembri devota a lui.

«C’era un piccolo particolare che mi mise in sospetto assai presto. Tra i vecchi libri che il dottore stava sfogliando c’era un fascio di opuscoli del diciassettesimo secolo; e colsi un titolo: True Declaration of the Trial and Execution of My Lord Stafford. Ora, Stafford fu giustiziato nella faccenda del Complotto Papista, che cominciò con una delle storie di detective della storia; la morte di Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey. Godfrey fu trovato morto in un fosso, e parte del mistero stava nel fatto che aveva segni di strangolamento, ma era anche trafitto dalla propria spada. Pensai subito che qualcuno nella casa potesse aver tratto l’idea da qui. Ma non poteva averla voluta come modo di commettere un delitto. Può averla voluta soltanto come modo di creare un mistero. Poi vidi che ciò si applicava a tutti gli altri particolari oltraggiosi. Erano diabolici a sufficienza; ma non era mera diavoleria; c’era uno straccio di scusa; perché dovevano rendere il mistero il più contraddittorio e complicato possibile, per assicurarsi che ci mettessimo un lungo tempo a risolverlo… o piuttosto a vederci chiaro. Così trascinarono il povero vecchio giù dal suo letto di morte e fecero saltellare il cadavere e fargli fare capriole e ogni cosa che non avrebbe potuto fare. Dovevano darci un Problema Insolubile. Spazzarono via le proprie tracce dal sentiero, lasciando la scopa. Per fortuna ci vedemmo chiaro in tempo.»

«Tu ci vedesti chiaro in tempo,» disse Flambeau. «Io forse mi sarei attardato un po’ più a lungo sulla seconda pista che avevano lasciato, cosparsa di pillole assortite.»

«Ecco, comunque sia, siamo venuti via,» disse Father Brown, comodamente.

«E questa, presumo,» disse Flambeau, «è la ragione per cui sto correndo a questa velocità lungo la strada per Casterbury.»

Quella notte, nel monastero e nella chiesa di Casterbury, vi furono eventi tali da sconvolgere la clausura monastica. Il reliquiario di Santa Dorotea, in uno scrigno sfarzoso d’oro e di rubini, fu temporaneamente collocato in una stanza laterale presso la cappella del monastero, per essere portato in processione durante una funzione speciale al termine della Benedizione. Era custodito per il momento da un solo monaco, che lo sorvegliava in maniera tesa e vigile; poiché egli e i suoi confratelli sapevano tutto dell’ombra di pericolo che veniva dall’aggirarsi di Tiger Tyrone. Fu così che il monaco fu in piedi in un lampo, quando vide una delle basse finestre a grata cominciare ad aprirsi e un oggetto scuro insinuarsi come un serpente nero attraverso la fessura. Precipitatosi attraverso la stanza, lo afferrò e scoprì che era il braccio e la manica di un uomo, terminante con un elegante polsino e un lindo guanto grigio scuro. Afferratolo, gridò aiuto, e proprio mentre lo faceva, un uomo si lanciò nella stanza dalla porta alle sue spalle e ghermì lo scrigno che egli si era lasciato dietro sul tavolo. Quasi nello stesso istante, il braccio incastrato nella finestra gli rimase in mano, ed egli restò a stringere l’arto imbottito di un manichino.

Tiger Tyrone aveva già fatto quel trucco altre volte, ma per il monaco era una novità. Per fortuna, c’era almeno una persona per la quale i trucchi della Tigre non erano una novità; e quella persona apparve con baffi bellicosi, gigantescamente incorniciata nel vano della porta, proprio nel momento in cui la Tigre si voltava per fuggire da lì. Flambeau e Tiger Tyrone si guardarono l’un l’altro con occhi fermi e si scambiarono qualcosa che somigliava quasi a un saluto militare.

Nel frattempo Father Brown era scivolato dentro la cappella, per dire una preghiera per le diverse persone coinvolte in questi sconvenienti eventi. Ma sorrideva piuttosto che no, e, a dire la verità, non era affatto senza speranza riguardo al signor Tyrone e alla sua deplorevole famiglia; anzi era piuttosto più fiducioso di quanto lo fosse per molte persone assai più rispettabili. Poi i suoi pensieri si allargarono alle più grandiose prospettive del luogo e dell’occasione. Contro marmi neri e verdi all’estremità della cappella piuttosto rococò, i paramenti rosso scuro della festa di una martire facevano a loro volta da sfondo a un rosso più ardente; un rosso come carboni incandescenti; i rubini del reliquiario; le rose di Santa Dorotea. Ed egli ebbe di nuovo un pensiero da rivolgere indietro agli strani eventi di quel giorno, e alla donna che aveva rabbrividito davanti al sacrilegio che aveva contribuito a compiere. Dopotutto, pensò, anche Santa Dorotea aveva avuto un amante pagano; ma egli non l’aveva dominata né distrutto la sua fede. Ella era morta libera e per la verità; e poi gli aveva mandato rose dal Paradiso.

Alzò gli occhi e vide, attraverso il velo del fumo d’incenso e delle luci tremule, che la Benedizione volgeva al termine mentre la processione attendeva. Il senso delle ricchezze accumulate del tempo e della tradizione gli passò accanto premendo come una folla in marcia, fila dopo fila, attraverso secoli senza fine; e alto sopra tutti loro, come una ghirlanda di fiamme inestinguibili, come il sole della nostra mezzanotte mortale, il grande ostensorio fiammeggiava contro l’oscurità delle ombre delle volte, come fiammeggiava contro il nero enigma dell’universo. Poiché alcuni sono convinti che anche questo enigma sia un Problema Insolubile. E altri hanno uguale certezza che esso abbia una sola soluzione.

NINE: The Vampire of the Village

At the twist of a path in the hills, where two poplars stood up like pyramids dwarfing the tiny village of Potter’s Pond, a mere huddle of houses, there once walked a man in a costume of a very conspicuous cut and colour, wearing a vivid magenta coat and a white hat tilted upon black ambrosial curls, which ended with a sort of Byronic flourish of whisker.

The riddle of why he was wearing clothes of such fantastic antiquity, yet wearing them with an air of fashion and even swagger, was but one of the many riddles that were eventually solved in solving the mystery of his fate. The point here is that when he had passed the poplars he seemed to have vanished; as if he had faded into the wan and widening dawn or been blown away upon the wind of morning.

It was only about a week afterwards that his body was found a quarter of a mile away, broken upon the steep rockeries of a terraced garden leading up to a gaunt and shuttered house called The Grange. Just before he had vanished, he had been accidentally overheard apparently quarrelling with some bystanders, and especially abusing their village as ‘a wretched little hamlet’; and it was supposed that he had aroused some extreme passions of local patriotism and eventually been their victim. At least the local doctor testified that the skull had suffered a crushing blow that might have caused death, through probably only inflicted with some sort of club or cudgel. This fitted in well enough with the notion of an attack by rather savage yokels. But nobody ever found any means of tracing any particular yokel; and the inquest returned a verdict of murder by some persons unknown.

A year or two afterwards the question was re - opened in a curious way; a series of events which led a certain Dr Mulborough, called by his intimates Mulberry in apt allusion to something rich and fruity about his dark rotundity and rather empurpled visage, travelling by train down to Potter’s Pond, with a friend whom he had often consulted upon problems of the kind. In spite of the somewhat port - winy and ponderous exterior of the doctor, he had a shrewd eye and was really a man of very remarkable sense; which he considered that he showed in consulting a little priest named Brown, whose acquaintance he had made over a poisoning case long ago. The little priest was sitting opposite to him, with the air of a patient baby absorbing instruction; and the doctor was explaining at length the real reasons for the journey.

‘I cannot agree with the gentleman in the magenta coat that Potter’s Pond is only a wretched little hamlet. But it is certainly a very remote and secluded village; so that it seems quite outlandish, like a village of a hundred years ago. The spinsters are really spinsters - damn it, you could almost imagine you saw them spin. The ladies are not just ladies. They are gentlewomen; and their chemist is not a chemist, but an apothecary; pronounced potecary. They do just admit the existence of an ordinary doctor like myself to assist the apothecary. But I am considered rather a juvenile innovation, because I am only fifty - seven years old and have only been in the county for twenty - eight years. The solicitor looks as if he had known it for twenty - eight thousand years. Then there is the old Admiral, who is just like a Dickens illustration; with a house full of cutlasses and cuttle - fish and equipped with a telescope.’

‘I suppose,’ said Father Brown, ‘there are always a certain number of Admirals washed up on the shore. But I never understood why they get stranded so far inland.’

‘Certainly no dead - alive place in the depths of the country is complete without one of these little creatures,’ said the doctor. ‘And then, of course, there is the proper sort of clergyman; Tory and High Church in a dusty fashion dating from Archbishop Laud; more of an old woman than any of the old women. He’s a white - haired studious old bird, more easily shocked than the spinsters. Indeed, the gentlewomen, though Puritan in their principles, are sometimes pretty plain in their speech; as the real Puritans were. Once or twice I have known old Miss Carstairs - Carew use expressions as lively as anything in the Bible. The dear old clergyman is assiduous in reading the Bible; but I almost fancy he shuts his eyes when he comes to those words. Well, you know I’m not particularly modern. I don’t enjoy this jazzing and joy - riding of the Bright Young Things - ’

‘The Bright Young Things don’t enjoy it,’ said Father Brown. ‘That is the real tragedy.’

‘But I am naturally rather more in touch with the world than the people in this prehistoric village,’ pursued the doctor. ‘And I had reached a point when I almost welcomed the Great Scandal.’

‘Don’t say the Bright Young Things have found Potter’s Pond after all,’ observed the priest, smiling.

‘Oh, even our scandal is on old - established melodramatic lines. Need I say that the clergyman’s son promises to be our problem? It would be almost irregular, if the clergyman’s son were quite regular. So far as I can see, he is very mildly and almost feebly irregular. He was first seen drinking ale outside the Blue Lion. Only it seems he is a poet, which in those parts is next door to being a poacher.’

‘Surely,’ said Father Brown, ‘even in Potter’s Pond that cannot be the Great Scandal.’

‘No,’ replied the doctor gravely. ‘The Great Scandal began thus. In the house called The Grange, situated at the extreme end of The Grove, there lives a lady. A Lonely Lady. She calls herself Mrs Maltravers (that is how we put it); but she only came a year or two ago and nobody knows anything about her. “I can’t think why she wants to live here,” said Miss Carstairs - Carew; “we do not visit her.”’

‘Perhaps that’s why she wants to live there,’ said Father Brown.

‘Well, her seclusion is considered suspicious. She annoys them by being good - looking and even what is called good style. And all the young men are warned against her as a vamp.’

NONO: Il vampiro del villaggio

Alla svolta di un sentiero fra le colline, dove due pioppi si ergevano come piramidi rimpicciolendo il minuscolo villaggio di Potter’s Pond, un semplice grumo di case, camminava un tempo un uomo in un costume dal taglio e dal colore assai vistosi, che indossava una sgargiante marsina color magenta e un cappello bianco inclinato su neri riccioli ambrosiaci, i quali terminavano con una specie di svolazzo byroniano di basetta.

L’enigma del perché egli indossasse abiti di così stravagante antichità, eppure li portasse con un’aria di moda e persino di spavalderia, non era che uno dei molti enigmi che alla fine vennero risolti risolvendo il mistero del suo destino. Il punto qui è che, quando ebbe oltrepassato i pioppi, sembrò essersi dileguato; come se si fosse dissolto nella pallida e crescente alba o fosse stato portato via dal vento del mattino.

Fu solo circa una settimana dopo che il suo corpo venne ritrovato a un quarto di miglio di distanza, spezzato sulle ripide rocciaglie di un giardino a terrazze che saliva verso una tetra casa dalle imposte serrate, chiamata The Grange. Poco prima di scomparire, era stato per caso udito mentre pareva litigare con alcuni astanti, e in particolare insultare il loro villaggio come «un misero borghetto»; e si suppose che avesse suscitato qualche estremo furore di patriottismo locale e ne fosse infine rimasto vittima. Perlomeno il medico del luogo testimoniò che il cranio aveva subìto un colpo tale da poter causare la morte, benché probabilmente inferto soltanto con una specie di clava o randello. Ciò si accordava abbastanza bene con l’idea di un’aggressione da parte di zotici piuttosto feroci. Ma nessuno riuscì mai a trovare il modo di rintracciare uno zotico in particolare; e l’inchiesta emise un verdetto di omicidio a opera di ignoti.

Un anno o due dopo la questione fu riaperta in modo curioso; una serie di eventi che condusse un certo dottor Mulborough, chiamato dagli intimi Mulberry, con appropriata allusione a qualcosa di ricco e succoso nella sua scura rotondità e nella faccia piuttosto imporporata, a viaggiare in treno fino a Potter’s Pond, con un amico che aveva spesso consultato su problemi di quel genere. A dispetto dell’esteriore alquanto vinoso e ponderoso del dottore, egli aveva un occhio acuto ed era davvero uomo di notevolissimo buon senso; il che riteneva di dimostrare consultando un piccolo prete di nome Brown, la cui conoscenza aveva fatto molto tempo prima in occasione di un caso di avvelenamento. Il piccolo prete gli sedeva di fronte, con l’aria di un paziente lattante che assorbe insegnamenti; e il dottore andava spiegando per esteso le vere ragioni del viaggio.

«Non posso concordare con il gentiluomo dalla marsina magenta che Potter’s Pond sia soltanto un misero borghetto. Ma è certamente un villaggio molto remoto e appartato; tanto da sembrare del tutto forestiero, come un villaggio di cent’anni fa. Le zitelle sono davvero zitelle — accidenti, si potrebbe quasi immaginare di vederle filare al fuso. Le signore non sono semplici signore. Sono gentildonne; e il loro chimico non è un chimico, ma uno speziale; pronunciato spziale. Ammettono, sì, l’esistenza di un dottore ordinario come me, ad assistere lo speziale. Ma io sono considerato un’innovazione piuttosto giovanile, perché ho solo cinquantasette anni e sono nella contea da appena ventotto. Il notaio ha l’aria di conoscerla da ventottomila anni. Poi c’è il vecchio Ammiraglio, che è proprio come un’illustrazione di Dickens; con una casa piena di sciabole e di seppie e provvisto di un cannocchiale.»

«Immagino,» disse Father Brown, «che ci sia sempre un certo numero di Ammiragli sospinti a riva. Ma non ho mai capito perché finiscano arenati tanto nell’entroterra.»

«Di certo nessun luogo morto-vivo nelle profondità della campagna è completo senza una di queste creaturine,» disse il dottore. «E poi, naturalmente, c’è il tipo appropriato di ecclesiastico; Tory e di Alta Chiesa in una foggia polverosa che risale all’arcivescovo Laud; più vecchia comare di qualsiasi vecchia comare. È un vecchio uccello studioso dai capelli bianchi, più facile a scandalizzarsi delle zitelle stesse. Anzi, le gentildonne, benché puritane nei loro princìpi, sono talvolta piuttosto schiette nel parlare; come lo erano i veri puritani. Una volta o due ho sentito la vecchia Miss Carstairs-Carew usare espressioni vivaci come qualunque cosa nella Bibbia. Il caro vecchio ecclesiastico è assiduo nel leggere la Bibbia; ma quasi immagino che chiuda gli occhi quando arriva a quelle parole. Insomma, sa che io non sono particolarmente moderno. Non mi diverte tutto questo jazzare e sfrecciare in automobile dei Bright Young Things…»

«I Bright Young Things non se ne divertono affatto,» disse Father Brown. «È questa la vera tragedia.»

«Ma io sono naturalmente un po’ più in contatto col mondo che non la gente di questo villaggio preistorico,» proseguì il dottore. «Ed ero giunto a un punto in cui quasi accolsi con favore il Grande Scandalo.»

«Non mi dica che i Bright Young Things hanno scoperto Potter’s Pond, dopotutto,» osservò il prete, sorridendo.

«Oh, persino il nostro scandalo segue vecchie e consolidate linee melodrammatiche. C’è bisogno che dica che a darci il problema è, per l’appunto, il figlio dell’ecclesiastico? Sarebbe quasi irregolare, se il figlio dell’ecclesiastico fosse del tutto regolare. Per quanto posso vedere, è molto blandamente e quasi fiaccamente irregolare. È stato visto la prima volta a bere birra fuori dal Blue Lion. Solo che pare sia un poeta, il che da quelle parti è la porta accanto all’essere un bracconiere.»

«Certo,» disse Father Brown, «neppure a Potter’s Pond questo può essere il Grande Scandalo.»

«No,» rispose gravemente il dottore. «Il Grande Scandalo cominciò così. Nella casa chiamata The Grange, posta all’estremità di The Grove, vive una signora. Una Signora Solitaria. Si fa chiamare Mrs Maltravers (così, almeno, la mettiamo noi); ma è arrivata soltanto un anno o due fa e nessuno sa nulla di lei. “Non riesco a immaginare perché voglia vivere qui,” disse Miss Carstairs-Carew; “noi non le facciamo visita.”»

«Forse è proprio per questo che vuole vivere là,» disse Father Brown.

«Ebbene, il suo isolamento è ritenuto sospetto. Li irrita per il fatto di essere di bell’aspetto e persino di quello che si chiama buon stile. E tutti i giovanotti vengono messi in guardia contro di lei come contro una vamp.»

‘People who lose all their charity generally lose all their logic,’ remarked Father Brown. ‘It’s rather ridiculous to complain that she keeps to herself; and then accuse her of vamping the whole male population.’

‘That is true,’ said the doctor. ‘And yet she is really rather a puzzling person. I saw her and found her intriguing; one of those brown women, long and elegant and beautifully ugly, if you know what I mean. She is rather witty, and though young enough certainly gives me an impression of what they call - well, experience. What the old ladies call a Past.’

‘All the old ladies having been born this very minute,’ observed Father Brown. ‘I think I can assume she is supposed to have vamped the parson’s son.’

‘Yes, and it seems to be a very awful problem to the poor old parson. She is supposed to be a widow.’

Father Brown’s face had a flash and spasm of his rare irritation. ‘She is supposed to be a widow, as the parson’s son is supposed to be the parson’s son, and the solicitor is supposed to be a solicitor and you are supposed to be a doctor. Why in thunder shouldn’t she be a widow? Have they one speck of prima facie evidence for doubting that she is what she says she is?’ ,

Dr Mulborough abruptly squared his broad shoulders and sat up. ‘Of course you’re right again,’ he said. ‘But we haven’t come to the scandal yet. Well, the scandal is that she is a widow.’

‘Oh,’ said Father Brown; and his face altered and he said something soft and faint, that might almost have been ‘My God!’

‘First of all,’ said the doctor, ‘they have made one discovery about Mrs Maltravers. She is an actress.’

‘I fancied so,’ said Father Brown. ‘Never mind why. I had another fancy about her, that would seem even more irrelevant.’

‘Well, at that instant it was scandal enough that she was an actress. The dear old clergyman of course is heartbroken, to think that his white hairs should be brought in sorrow to the grave by an actress and adventuress. The spinsters shriek in chorus. The Admiral admits he has sometimes been to a theatre in town; but objects to such things in what he calls “our midst”. Well, of course I’ve no particular objections of that kind. This actress is certainly a lady, if a bit of a Dark Lady, in the manner of the Sonnets; the young man is very much in love with her; and I am no doubt a sentimental old fool in having a sneaking sympathy with the misguided youth who is sneaking round the Moated Grange; and I was getting into quite a pastoral frame of mind about this idyll, when suddenly the thunderbolt fell. And I, who am the only person who ever had any sympathy with these people, am sent down to be the messenger of doom.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, ‘and why were you sent down?’

The doctor answered with a sort of groan:

‘Mrs Maltravers is not only a widow, but she is the widow of Mr Maltravers.’

‘It sounds like a shocking revelation, as you state it,’ acknowledged the priest seriously.

‘And Mr Maltravers,’ continued his medical friend, ‘was the man who was apparently murdered in this very village a year or two ago; supposed to have been bashed on the head by one of the simple villagers.’

‘I remember you told me,’ said Father Brown. ‘The doctor, or some doctor, said he had probably died of being clubbed on the head with a cudgel.’

Dr Mulborough was silent for a moment in frowning embarrassment, and then said curtly:

‘Dog doesn’t eat dog, and doctors don’t bite doctors, not even when they are mad doctors. I shouldn’t care to cast any reflection on my eminent predecessor in Potter’s Pond, if I could avoid it; but I know you are really safe for secrets. And, speaking in confidence, my eminent predecessor at Potter’s Pond was a blasted fool; a drunken old humbug and absolutely incompetent. I was asked, originally by the Chief Constable of the County (for I’ve lived a long time in the county, though only recently in the village), to look into the whole business; the depositions and reports of the inquest and so on. And there simply isn’t any question about it. Maltravers may have been hit on the head; he was a strolling actor passing through the place; and Potter’s Pond probably thinks it is all in the natural order that such people should be hit on the head. But whoever hit him on the head did not kill him; it is simply impossible for the injury, as described, to do more than knock him out for a few hours. But lately I have managed to turn up some other facts bearing on the matter; and the result of it is pretty grim.’

He sat louring at the landscape as it slid past the window, and then said more curtly: ‘I am coming down here, and asking your help, because there’s going to be an exhumation. There is very strong suspicion of poison.’

‘And here we are at the station,’ said Father Brown cheerfully. ‘I suppose your idea is that poisoning the poor man would naturally fall among the household duties of his wife.’

‘Well, there never seems to have been anyone else here who had any particular connection with him,’ replied Mulborough, as they alighted from the train. ‘At least there is one queer old crony of his, a broken

• down actor, hanging around; but the police and the local solicitor seem convinced he is an unbalanced busybody; with some idee fixe about a quarrel with an actor who was his enemy; but who certainly wasn’t Maltravers. A wandering accident, I should say, and certainly nothing to do with the problem of the poison.’

Father Brown had heard the story. But he knew that he never knew a story until he knew the characters in the story. He spent the next two or three days in going the rounds, on one polite excuse or another, to visit the chief actors of the drama. His first interview with the mysterious widow was brief but bright. He brought away from it at least two facts; one that Mrs Maltravers sometimes talked in a way which the Victorian village would call cynical; and, second, that like not a few actresses, she happened to belong to his own religious communion.

«Chi perde tutta la propria carità perde di solito tutta la propria logica,» osservò Father Brown. «È piuttosto ridicolo lamentarsi che se ne stia per conto suo; e poi accusarla di ammaliare l’intera popolazione maschile.»

«È vero,» disse il dottore. «Eppure è davvero una persona alquanto enigmatica. L’ho vista e l’ho trovata intrigante; una di quelle donne brune, alte ed eleganti e splendidamente brutte, se capisce cosa intendo. È piuttosto spiritosa, e benché abbastanza giovane mi dà di certo l’impressione di ciò che chiamano — beh, esperienza. Ciò che le vecchie signore chiamano un Passato.»

«Le vecchie signore, essendo tutte nate proprio in questo istante,» osservò Padre Brown. «Credo di poter supporre che si presuma abbia ammaliato il figlio del parroco.»

«Sì, e pare sia un problema assai terribile per il povero vecchio parroco. Si presume che sia vedova.»

Il volto di Father Brown ebbe un lampo e uno spasimo della sua rara irritazione. «Si presume che sia vedova, come si presume che il figlio del parroco sia il figlio del parroco, e il notaio si presume sia un notaio e lei si presume sia un dottore. Perché diamine non dovrebbe essere vedova? Hanno un solo briciolo di prova prima facie per dubitare che sia ciò che dice di essere?»

Il dottor Mulborough raddrizzò di scatto le larghe spalle e si mise a sedere ritto. «Naturalmente avete ragione ancora una volta,» disse. «Ma non siamo ancora arrivati allo scandalo. Ebbene, lo scandalo è che è vedova.»

«Oh,» disse Father Brown; e il suo volto mutò ed egli disse qualcosa di sommesso e fioco, che avrebbe quasi potuto essere «Dio mio!»

«Prima di tutto,» disse il dottore, «hanno fatto una scoperta su Mrs Maltravers. È un’attrice.»

«L’avevo immaginato,» disse Father Brown. «Non importa perché. Avevo un’altra congettura sul suo conto, che sembrerebbe anche più irrilevante.»

«Ebbene, in quel momento bastava e avanzava, come scandalo, che fosse un’attrice. Il caro vecchio ecclesiastico naturalmente ha il cuore spezzato, al pensiero che i suoi bianchi capelli debbano essere condotti nel dolore alla tomba da un’attrice e avventuriera. Le zitelle strillano in coro. L’Ammiraglio ammette di essere talvolta andato a teatro in città; ma obietta a simili cose in quello che chiama “il nostro seno”. Beh, naturalmente io non ho obiezioni particolari di quel genere. Questa attrice è di certo una signora, se pure un po’ una Dama Bruna, alla maniera dei Sonetti; il giovanotto è molto innamorato di lei; e io sono senza dubbio un vecchio sciocco sentimentale ad avere una segreta simpatia per il giovane traviato che si aggira di soppiatto attorno alla Grange dal fossato; e stavo entrando in uno stato d’animo del tutto pastorale a proposito di questo idillio, quando all’improvviso cadde il fulmine. E io, che sono l’unica persona che abbia mai avuto un po’ di simpatia per questa gente, vengo mandato quaggiù a fare il messaggero della sventura.»

«Sì,» disse Father Brown, «e perché siete stato mandato quaggiù?»

Il dottore rispose con una specie di gemito:

«Mrs Maltravers non è soltanto una vedova, ma è la vedova di Mr Maltravers.»

«Suona come una rivelazione sconvolgente, così come la enunciate,» riconobbe seriamente il prete.

«E Mr Maltravers,» proseguì il suo amico medico, «era l’uomo che a quanto pare fu assassinato in questo stesso villaggio un anno o due fa; si suppose che gli avessero fracassato la testa uno dei semplici villici.»

«Ricordo che me l’avete detto,» disse Father Brown. «Il dottore, o un qualche dottore, disse che probabilmente era morto per essere stato colpito alla testa con un randello.»

Il dottor Mulborough tacque per un momento in accigliato imbarazzo, poi disse seccamente:

«Cane non mangia cane, e i dottori non mordono i dottori, nemmeno quando sono dottori pazzi. Non mi piacerebbe gettare alcuna ombra sul mio eminente predecessore a Potter’s Pond, se potessi evitarlo; ma so che con voi i segreti sono davvero al sicuro. E, parlando in confidenza, il mio eminente predecessore a Potter’s Pond era un maledetto sciocco; un vecchio ubriacone impostore e assolutamente incompetente. Mi fu chiesto, in origine dal Capo della Polizia della Contea (perché ho vissuto a lungo tempo nella contea, benché solo di recente nel villaggio), di indagare sull’intera faccenda; le deposizioni e i verbali dell’inchiesta e via dicendo. E non c’è semplicemente alcun dubbio in proposito. Maltravers può anche essere stato colpito alla testa; era un attore girovago di passaggio nel luogo; e Potter’s Pond ritiene probabilmente che sia tutto nell’ordine naturale che simile gente venga colpita alla testa. Ma chiunque lo abbia colpito alla testa non lo uccise; è semplicemente impossibile che la lesione, così come descritta, facesse più che stordirlo per qualche ora. Ma di recente sono riuscito a scovare altri fatti attinenti alla questione; e il risultato è piuttosto sinistro.»

Sedeva torvo a guardare il paesaggio che scivolava via oltre il finestrino, poi disse ancora più seccamente: «Vengo quaggiù, e chiedo il vostro aiuto, perché ci sarà una riesumazione. C’è un fortissimo sospetto di veleno.»

«Ed eccoci alla stazione,» disse Father Brown allegramente. «Immagino che la vostra idea sia che avvelenare il pover’uomo rientrasse naturalmente fra i doveri domestici di sua moglie.»

«Ebbene, non sembra esserci mai stato nessun altro qui che avesse qualche legame particolare con lui,» rispose Mulborough, mentre scendevano dal treno. «Perlomeno c’è un vecchio strambo compare di lui, un attore fallito, che gironzola qua attorno; ma la polizia e il notaio del posto paiono convinti che sia un impiccione squilibrato; con una qualche idea fissa su una lite con un attore che era suo nemico; ma che di certo non era Maltravers. Un caso errante, direi, e di certo nulla a che vedere col problema del veleno.»

Father Brown aveva ascoltato la storia. Ma sapeva di non conoscere mai una storia finché non ne conosceva i personaggi. Trascorse i due o tre giorni seguenti nel fare il giro, con l’uno o l’altro cortese pretesto, per far visita ai principali attori del dramma. Il suo primo colloquio con la misteriosa vedova fu breve ma brillante. Ne portò via almeno due fatti; uno, che Mrs Maltravers parlava talvolta in un modo che il villaggio vittoriano avrebbe definito cinico; e, secondo, che come non poche attrici, si dava il caso appartenesse alla sua stessa comunione religiosa.

He was not so illogical (nor so unorthodox) as to infer from this alone that she was innocent of the alleged crime. He was well aware that his old religious communion could boast of several distinguished poisoners. But he had no difficulty in understanding its connection, in this sort of case, with a certain intellectual liberty which these Puritans would call laxity; and which would certainly seem to this parochial patch of an older England to be almost cosmopolitan. Anyhow, he was sure she could count for a great deal, whether for good or evil. Her brown eyes were brave to the point of battle, and her enigmatic mouth, humorous and rather large, suggested that her purposes touching the parson’s poetical son, whatever they might be, were planted pretty deep.

The parson’s poetical son himself, interviewed amid vast village scandal on a bench outside the Blue Lion, gave an impression of pure sulks. Hurrel Horner, a son of the Rev. Samuel Horner, was a square - built young man in a pale grey suit with a touch of something arty in a pale green tie, otherwise mainly notable for a mane of auburn hair and a permanent scowl. But Father Brown had a way with him in getting people to explain at considerable length why they refused to say a single word. About the general scandalmongering in the village, the young man began to curse freely. He even added a little scandalmongering of his own. He referred bitterly to alleged past flirtations between the Puritan Miss Carstairs – Carew and Mr Carver the solicitor. He even accused that legal character of having attempted to force himself upon the acquaintance of Mrs Maltravers. But when he came to speak of his own father, whether out of an acid decency or piety, or because his anger was too deep for speech, he snapped out only a few words.

‘Well, there it is. He denounces her day and night as a painted adventuress; a sort of barmaid with gilt hair. I tell him she’s not; you’ve met her yourself, and you know she’s not. But he won’t even meet her. He won’t even see her in the street or look at her out of a window. An actress would pollute his house and even his holy presence. If he is called a Puritan he says he’s proud to be a Puritan.’

‘Your father,’ said Father Brown, ‘is entitled to have his views respected, whatever they are; they are not views I understand very well myself. But I agree he is not entitled to lay down the law about a lady he has never seen and then refuse even to look at her, to see if he is right. That is illogical.’

‘That’s his very stiffest point,’ replied the youth. ‘Not even one momentary meeting. Of course, he thunders against my other theatrical tastes as well.’

Father Brown swiftly followed up the new opening, and learnt much that he wanted to know. The alleged poetry, which was such a blot on the young man’s character, was almost entirely dramatic poetry. He had written tragedies in verse which had been admired by good judges. He was no mere stage - struck fool; indeed he was no fool of any kind. He had some really original ideas about acting Shakespeare; it was easy to understand his having been dazzled and delighted by finding the brilliant lady at the Grange. And even the priest’s intellectual sympathy so far mellowed the rebel of Potter’s Pond that at their parting he actually smiled.

It was that smile which suddenly revealed to Father Brown that the young man was really miserable. So long as he frowned, it might well have been only sulks; but when he smiled it was somehow a more real revelation of sorrow.

Something continued to haunt the priest about that interview with the poet. An inner instinct certified that the sturdy young man was eaten from within, by some grief greater even than the conventional story of conventional parents being obstacles to the course of true love. It was all the more so, because there were not any obvious alternative causes. The boy was already rather a literary and dramatic success; his books might be said to be booming. Nor did he drink or dissipate his well - earned wealth. His notorious revels at the Blue Lion reduced themselves to one glass of light ale; and he seemed to be rather careful with his money. Father Brown thought of another possible complication in connection with Hurrel’s large resources and small expenditure; and his brow darkened.

The conversation of Miss Carstairs - Carew, on whom he called next, was certainly calculated to paint the parson’s son in the darkest colours. But as it was devoted to blasting him with all the special vices which Father Brown was quite certain the young man did not exhibit, he put it down to a common combination of Puritanism and gossip. The lady, though lofty, was quite gracious, however, and offered the visitor a small glass of port - wine and a slice of seed - cake, in the manner of everybody’s most ancient great - aunts, before he managed to escape from a sermon on the general decay of morals and manners.

His next port of call was very much of a contrast; for he disappeared down a dark and dirty alley, where Miss Carstairs - Carew would have refused to follow him even in thought; and then into a narrow tenement made noisier by a high and declamatory voice in an attic … From this he re - emerged, with a rather dazed expression, pursued on to the pavement by a very excited man with a blue chin and a black frock - coat faded to bottle - green, who was shouting argumentatively: ‘He did not disappear! Maltravers never disappeared! He appeared: he appeared dead and I’ve appeared alive. But where’s all the rest of the company? Where’s that man, that monster, who deliberately stole my lines, crabbed my best scenes and ruined my career? I was the finest Tubal that ever trod the boards. He acted Shylock - he didn’t need to act much for that! And so with the greatest opportunity of my whole career. I could show you press - cuttings on my renderings of Fortinbras - ’

Non era così illogico (né così poco ortodosso) da inferire da questo solo fatto che ella fosse innocente del presunto crimine. Sapeva bene che la sua vecchia comunione religiosa poteva vantare diversi avvelenatori insigni. Ma non aveva difficoltà a comprenderne il legame, in un caso del genere, con una certa libertà intellettuale che questi puritani avrebbero chiamato rilassatezza; e che a questo parrocchiale lembo di una vecchia Inghilterra sarebbe di certo parsa quasi cosmopolita. Comunque, era sicuro che lei potesse contare per molto, tanto nel bene quanto nel male. I suoi occhi bruni erano coraggiosi fino alla battaglia, e la sua bocca enigmatica, spiritosa e piuttosto grande, faceva pensare che i suoi propositi riguardo al poetico figlio del parroco, quali che fossero, erano piantati piuttosto in profondità.

Il poetico figlio del parroco stesso, intervistato in mezzo a un vasto scandalo di villaggio su una panca fuori dal Blue Lion, diede l’impressione di puro broncio. Hurrel Horner, figlio del reverendo Samuel Horner, era un giovane dalla corporatura tozza, in un abito grigio pallido con un tocco di qualcosa di artistico in una cravatta verde pallido, per il resto notevole soprattutto per una criniera di capelli ramati e un cipiglio perenne. Ma Father Brown aveva un suo modo di indurre la gente a spiegare a considerevole lunghezza perché si rifiutava di dire una sola parola. A proposito del generale pettegolezzo scandalistico del villaggio, il giovanotto cominciò a imprecare liberamente. Vi aggiunse anzi un po’ di pettegolezzo scandalistico suo proprio. Alluse con amarezza a presunti flirt passati fra la puritana Miss Carstairs-Carew e Mr Carver il notaio. Accusò persino quel personaggio legale di aver tentato di imporsi alla conoscenza di Mrs Maltravers. Ma quando venne a parlare del proprio padre, fosse per un’acida decenza o pietà, o perché la sua ira era troppo profonda per la parola, sbottò soltanto in poche parole.

«Ecco, le cose stanno così. La denuncia giorno e notte come un’avventuriera imbellettata; una specie di cameriera da bar coi capelli dorati. Io gli dico che non lo è; l’avete conosciuta voi stesso, e sapete che non lo è. Ma lui non vuole nemmeno incontrarla. Non vuole neppure vederla per strada o guardarla da una finestra. Un’attrice inquinerebbe la sua casa e persino la sua santa presenza. Se lo chiamano puritano, dice di essere fiero di essere un puritano.»

«Vostro padre,» disse Father Brown, «ha diritto a vedere rispettate le proprie opinioni, quali che siano; non sono opinioni che io stesso capisca molto bene. Ma convengo che non ha diritto di dettare legge su una signora che non ha mai visto e poi rifiutarsi persino di guardarla, per vedere se ha ragione. Questo è illogico.»

«È il suo punto più irremovibile,» rispose il ragazzo. «Neppure un solo incontro fugace. Naturalmente, tuona anche contro gli altri miei gusti teatrali.»

Father Brown seguì prontamente il nuovo spiraglio, e apprese molto di ciò che voleva sapere. La presunta poesia, che era una tale macchia sul carattere del giovane, era quasi interamente poesia drammatica. Aveva scritto tragedie in versi che erano state ammirate da buoni intenditori. Non era un mero sciocco invaghito del palcoscenico; anzi, non era affatto uno sciocco. Aveva alcune idee davvero originali su come recitare Shakespeare; era facile capire come fosse rimasto abbagliato e deliziato nell’imbattersi nella brillante signora della Grange. E persino la simpatia intellettuale del prete addolcì a tal punto il ribelle di Potter’s Pond che, al momento di separarsi, egli sorrise davvero.

Fu quel sorriso a rivelare all’improvviso a Father Brown che il giovane era davvero infelice. Finché aggrottava la fronte, poteva anche ben trattarsi soltanto di broncio; ma quando sorrideva, era in qualche modo una rivelazione più autentica di dolore.

Qualcosa continuava a tormentare il prete a proposito di quel colloquio col poeta. Un istinto interiore certificava che il robusto giovanotto era roso dall’interno, da un dolore ancor più grande della storia convenzionale di genitori convenzionali che si fanno ostacolo al corso del vero amore. Tanto più che non c’era alcuna ovvia causa alternativa. Il ragazzo era già un successo letterario e drammatico piuttosto notevole; si poteva dire che i suoi libri andavano a gonfie vele. Né beveva o dissipava la sua ben guadagnata ricchezza. Le sue famigerate gozzoviglie al Blue Lion si riducevano a un bicchiere di birra leggera; e pareva essere piuttosto attento col denaro. Father Brown pensò a un’altra possibile complicazione in connessione con le ampie risorse e le esigue spese di Hurrel; e la sua fronte si oscurò.

La conversazione di Miss Carstairs-Carew, dalla quale si recò in seguito, era di certo calcolata per dipingere il figlio del parroco coi colori più foschi. Ma poiché era votata a fulminarlo con tutti quei particolari vizi che Father Brown era ben certo il giovane non esibisse, egli l’attribuì a una comune combinazione di puritanesimo e chiacchiere. La signora, benché altezzosa, fu però assai garbata, e offrì al visitatore un bicchierino di vino di Porto e una fetta di dolce ai semi, alla maniera delle prozie più antiche di chiunque, prima che egli riuscisse a sottrarsi a un sermone sulla generale decadenza della morale e dei costumi.

Il suo successivo scalo fu un vero e proprio contrasto; poiché scomparve giù per un vicolo scuro e sudicio, dove Miss Carstairs-Carew si sarebbe rifiutata di seguirlo persino col pensiero; e poi in una stretta catapecchia resa più rumorosa da una voce alta e declamatoria in un solaio… Da questa riemerse, con un’espressione piuttosto stordita, inseguito fin sul marciapiede da un uomo assai eccitato dal mento bluastro e da una redingote nera stinta fino al verde bottiglia, che gridava argomentando: «Non è scomparso! Maltravers non è mai scomparso! È apparso: è apparso morto e io sono apparso vivo. Ma dov’è tutto il resto della compagnia? Dov’è quell’uomo, quel mostro, che deliberatamente mi rubò le battute, mi rovinò le scene migliori e mandò in rovina la mia carriera? Io ero il più bel Tubal che avesse mai calcato le tavole del palcoscenico. Lui faceva Shylock — e non aveva bisogno di recitare granché per quello! E così con la più grande occasione di tutta la mia carriera. Potrei mostrarvi ritagli di giornale sulle mie interpretazioni di Fortebraccio…»

‘I’m quite sure they were splendid and very well - deserved,’ gasped the little priest. ‘I understood the company had left the village before Maltravers died. But it’s all right. It’s quite all right.’ And he began to hurry down the street again.

‘He was to act Polonius,’ continued the unquenchable orator behind him. Father Brown suddenly stopped dead.

‘Oh,’ he said very slowly, ‘he was to act Polonius.’

‘That villain Hankin!’ shrieked the actor. ‘Follow his trail. Follow him to the ends of the earth! Of course he’d left the village; trust him for that. Follow him - find him; and may the curses - ’ But the priest was again hurrying away down the street.

Two much more prosaic and perhaps more practical interviews followed this melodramatic scene. First the priest went into the bank, where he was closeted for ten minutes with the manager; and then paid a very proper call on the aged and amiable clergyman. Here again all seemed very much as described, unaltered and seemingly unalterable; a touch or two of devotion from more austere traditions, in the narrow crucifix on the wall, the big Bible on the bookstand and the old gentleman’s opening lament over the increasing disregard of Sunday; but all with a flavour of gentility that was not without its little refinements and faded luxuries.

The clergyman also gave his guest a glass of port; but accompanied by an ancient British biscuit instead of seedcake. The priest had again the weird feeling that everything was almost too perfect, and that he was living a century before his time. Only on one point the amiable old parson refused to melt into any further amiability; he meekly but firmly maintained that his conscience would not allow him to meet a stage player. However, Father Brown put down his glass of port with expressions of appreciation and thanks; and went off to meet his friend the doctor by appointment at the corner of the street; whence they were to go together to the offices of Mr Carver, the solicitor.

‘I suppose you’ve gone the dreary round,’ began the doctor, ‘and found it a very dull village.’

Father Brown’s reply was sharp and almost shrill. ‘Don’t call your village dull. I assure you it’s a very extraordinary village indeed.’

‘I’ve been dealing with the only extraordinary thing that ever happened here, I should think,’ observed Dr Mulborough. ‘And even that happened to somebody from outside. I may tell you they managed the exhumation quietly last night; and I did the autopsy this morning. In plain words we’ve been digging up a corpse that’s simply stuffed with poison.’

‘A corpse stuffed with poison,’ repeated Father Brown rather absently. ‘Believe me, your village contains something much more extraordinary than that.’

There was abrupt silence, followed by the equally abrupt pulling of the antiquated bell - pull in the porch of the solicitor’s house; and they were soon brought into the presence of that legal gentleman, who presented them in turn to a white - haired, yellow - faced gentleman with a scar, who appeared to be the Admiral.

By this time the atmosphere of the village had sunk almost into the subconsciousness of the little priest; but he was conscious that the lawyer was indeed the sort of lawyer to be the adviser of people like Miss Carstairs - Carew. But though he was an archaic old bird, he seemed something more than a fossil. Perhaps it was the uniformity of the background; but the priest had again the curious feeling that he himself was transplanted back into the early nineteenth century, rather than that the solicitor had survived into the early twentieth. His collar and cravat contrived to look almost like a stock as he settled his long chin into them; but they were clean as well as clean - cut; and there was even something about him of a very - dry old dandy. In short, he was what is called well preserved, even if partly by being petrified.

The lawyer and the Admiral, and even the doctor, showed some surprise on finding that Father Brown was rather disposed to defend the parson’s son against the local lamentations on behalf of the parson.

‘I thought our young friend rather attractive, myself,’ he said. ‘He’s a good talker and I should guess a good poet; and Mrs Maltravers, who is serious about that at least, says he’s quite a good actor.’

‘Indeed,’ said the lawyer. ‘Potter’s Pond, outside Mrs Maltravers, is rather more inclined to ask if he is a good son.’

‘He is a good son,’ said Father Brown. ‘That’s the extraordinary thing.’

‘Damn it all,’ said the Admiral. ‘Do you mean he’s really fond of his father?’

The priest hesitated. Then he said, ‘I’m not quite so sure about that. That’s the other extraordinary thing.’

‘What the devil do you mean?’ demanded the sailor with nautical profanity.

‘I mean,’ said Father Brown, ‘that the son still speaks of his father in a hard unforgiving way; but he seems after all to have done more than his duty by him. I had a talk with the bank manager, and as we were inquiring in confidence into a serious crime, under authority from the police, he told me the facts. The old clergyman has retired from parish work; indeed, this was never actually his parish. Such of the populace, which is pretty pagan, as goes to church at all, goes to Dutton - Abbot, not a mile away. The old man has no private means, but his son is earning good money; and the old man is well looked after. He gave me some port of absolutely first - class vintage; I saw rows of dusty old bottles of it; and I left him sitting down to a little lunch quite recherche in an old - fashioned style. It must be done on the young man’s money.’

‘Quite a model son,’ said Carver with a slight sneer.

Father Brown nodded, frowning, as if revolving a riddle of his own; and then said: ‘A model son. But rather a mechanical model.’

At this moment a clerk brought in an unstamped letter for the lawyer; a letter which the lawyer tore impatiently across after a single glance. As it fell apart, the priest saw a spidery, crazy crowded sort of handwriting and the signature of ‘Phoenix Fitzgerald’; and made a guess which the other curtly confirmed.

«Sono ben sicuro che fossero splendide e assai ben meritate,» ansimò il piccolo prete. «Avevo capito che la compagnia aveva lasciato il villaggio prima che Maltravers morisse. Ma va tutto bene. Va tutto benissimo.» E ricominciò ad affrettarsi giù per la strada.

«Doveva fare Polonius,» proseguì l’inestinguibile oratore dietro di lui. Father Brown all’improvviso si fermò di colpo.

«Oh,» disse assai lentamente, «doveva fare Polonius.»

«Quel furfante di Hankin!» strillò l’attore. «Seguitene le tracce. Inseguitelo fino ai confini della terra! Naturalmente aveva lasciato il villaggio; contateci pure. Inseguitelo — trovatelo; e che le maledizioni…» Ma il prete si stava di nuovo allontanando in fretta giù per la strada.

A questa scena melodrammatica seguirono due colloqui assai più prosaici e forse più pratici. Dapprima il prete entrò in banca, dove restò rinchiuso per dieci minuti col direttore; e poi fece una visita del tutto appropriata all’anziano e amabile ecclesiastico. Anche qui tutto pareva molto come era stato descritto, immutato e in apparenza immutabile; un tocco o due di devozione da tradizioni più austere, nell’esiguo crocifisso alla parete, nella grande Bibbia sul leggìo e nell’iniziale lamento del vecchio gentiluomo sul crescente disprezzo per la domenica; ma tutto con un aroma di gentilezza che non era privo delle sue piccole raffinatezze e dei suoi appassiti lussi.

Anche l’ecclesiastico offrì al suo ospite un bicchiere di Porto; ma accompagnato da un antico biscotto britannico invece che dal dolce ai semi. Il prete ebbe di nuovo la strana sensazione che tutto fosse quasi troppo perfetto, e che stesse vivendo un secolo prima del suo tempo. Solo su un punto l’amabile vecchio parroco si rifiutò di sciogliersi in qualsiasi ulteriore amabilità; mitemente ma fermamente sostenne che la sua coscienza non gli avrebbe permesso di incontrare un attore di palcoscenico. Tuttavia, Father Brown posò il bicchiere di Porto con espressioni di apprezzamento e ringraziamento; e se ne andò a incontrare il suo amico dottore, per appuntamento, all’angolo della strada; donde dovevano recarsi insieme agli uffici di Mr Carver, il notaio.

«Immagino che abbiate fatto il tetro giro,» esordì il dottore, «e abbiate trovato un villaggio assai noioso.»

La risposta di Father Brown fu tagliente e quasi stridula. «Non chiamate noioso il vostro villaggio. Vi assicuro che è davvero un villaggio straordinarissimo.»

«Ho avuto a che fare con l’unica cosa straordinaria che sia mai accaduta qui, direi io,» osservò il dottor Mulborough. «E persino quella accadde a qualcuno di fuori. Posso dirvi che sono riusciti a condurre la riesumazione in silenzio la scorsa notte; e io ho fatto l’autopsia stamattina. In parole povere, abbiamo dissotterrato un cadavere semplicemente imbottito di veleno.»

«Un cadavere imbottito di veleno,» ripeté Father Brown piuttosto distrattamente. «Credetemi, il vostro villaggio contiene qualcosa di ben più straordinario di questo.»

Vi fu un brusco silenzio, seguito dall’altrettanto brusco tirare dell’antiquato cordone del campanello nel portico della casa del notaio; e vennero presto introdotti alla presenza di quel legale gentiluomo, il quale li presentò a loro volta a un gentiluomo dai capelli bianchi e dal volto giallastro con una cicatrice, che pareva essere l’Ammiraglio.

Ormai l’atmosfera del villaggio era sprofondata quasi nella subcoscienza del piccolo prete; ma egli era consapevole che l’avvocato era proprio il genere di avvocato adatto a essere il consulente di gente come Miss Carstairs-Carew. Ma benché fosse un arcaico vecchio uccello, sembrava qualcosa di più di un fossile. Forse era l’uniformità dello sfondo; ma il prete ebbe di nuovo la curiosa sensazione di essere lui stesso trapiantato indietro nei primi anni dell’Ottocento, piuttosto che il notaio essere sopravvissuto fino ai primi anni del Novecento. Il colletto e la cravatta riuscivano a somigliare quasi a una gorgiera mentre egli vi affondava il lungo mento; ma erano puliti oltre che netti nel taglio; e c’era persino in lui qualcosa di un asciuttissimo vecchio dandy. In breve, era ciò che si dice ben conservato, anche se in parte per il fatto di essere pietrificato.

L’avvocato e l’Ammiraglio, e persino il dottore, mostrarono una certa sorpresa nel constatare che Father Brown era piuttosto incline a difendere il figlio del parroco contro i lamenti locali in favore del parroco.

«Il nostro giovane amico l’ho trovato piuttosto simpatico, da parte mia,» disse. «È un buon conversatore e, immagino, un buon poeta; e Mrs Maltravers, che almeno su questo è seria, dice che è un attore piuttosto valido.»

«Davvero,» disse l’avvocato. «Potter’s Pond, Mrs Maltravers a parte, è piuttosto più incline a chiedersi se sia un buon figlio.»

«È un buon figlio,» disse Father Brown. «È questa la cosa straordinaria.»

«Diamine,» disse l’Ammiraglio. «Intendete dire che è davvero affezionato a suo padre?»

Il prete esitò. Poi disse: «Non ne sono poi così sicuro. È questa l’altra cosa straordinaria.»

«Che diavolo intendete dire?» domandò il marinaio con profanità nautica.

«Intendo,» disse Father Brown, «che il figlio parla ancora del padre in modo duro e implacabile; ma pare, dopotutto, aver fatto più del proprio dovere verso di lui. Ho avuto un colloquio col direttore della banca e, poiché stavamo indagando in confidenza su un grave crimine, sotto autorità della polizia, egli mi ha riferito i fatti. Il vecchio ecclesiastico si è ritirato dal lavoro parrocchiale; anzi, questa non è mai stata propriamente la sua parrocchia. Quella parte della popolazione, che è piuttosto pagana, che va in chiesa se pure ci va, va a Dutton-Abbot, a meno di un miglio da qui. Il vecchio non ha mezzi propri, ma il figlio guadagna un buon denaro; e del vecchio ci si prende ben cura. Mi ha dato un Porto di annata assolutamente di prim’ordine; ne ho viste file di vecchie bottiglie polverose; e l’ho lasciato mentre sedeva a un pranzetto del tutto ricercato all’antica maniera. Dev’esser fatto tutto col denaro del giovane.»

«Un figlio proprio modello,» disse Carver con un lieve ghigno.

Father Brown annuì, aggrottando la fronte, come rimuginando un enigma tutto suo; poi disse: «Un figlio modello. Ma piuttosto un modello meccanico.»

In quel momento un impiegato portò una lettera senza francobollo per l’avvocato; una lettera che l’avvocato strappò con impazienza dopo una sola occhiata. Mentre si divideva in due, il prete vide una calligrafia ragnesca, folle, affollata, e la firma di «Phoenix Fitzgerald»; e fece una congettura che l’altro confermò seccamente.

‘It’s that melodramatic actor that’s always pestering us,’ he said. ‘He’s got some fixed feud with some dead and gone fellow mummer of his, which can’t have anything to do with the case. We all refuse to see him, except the doctor, who did see him; and the doctor says he’s mad.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Brown, pursing his lips thoughtfully. ‘I should say he’s mad. But of course there can’t be any doubt that he’s right.’

‘Right?’ cried Carver sharply. ‘Right about what?’

‘About this being connected with the old theatrical company,’ said Father Brown. ‘Do you know the first thing that stumped me about this story? It was that notion that Maltravers was killed by villagers because he insulted their village. It’s extraordinary what coroners can get jurymen to believe; and journalists, of course, are quite incredibly credulous. They can’t know much about English rustics. I’m an English rustic myself; at least I was grown, with other turnips, in Essex. Can you imagine an English agricultural labourer idealizing and personifying his village, like the citizen of an old Greek city state; drawing the sword for its sacred banner, like a man in the tiny medieval republic of an Italian town? Can you hear a jolly old gaffer saying, “Blood alone can wipe out one spot on the escutcheon of Potter’s Pond”? By St George and the Dragon, I only wish they would! But, as a matter of fact, I have a more practical argument for the other notion.’

He paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, and then went on: ‘They misunderstood the meaning of those few last words poor Maltravers was heard to say. He wasn’t telling the villagers that the village was only a hamlet. He was talking to an actor; they were going to put on a performance in which Fitzgerald was to be Fortinbras, the unknown Hankin to be Polonius, and Maltravers, no doubt, the Prince of Denmark. Perhaps somebody else wanted the part or had views on the part; and Maltravers said angrily, “You’d be a miserable little Hamlet”; that’s all.’

Dr Mulborough was staring; he seemed to be digesting the suggestion slowly but without difficulty. At last he said, before the others could speak: ‘And what do you suggest that we should do now?’

Father Brown arose rather abruptly; but he spoke civilly enough. ‘If these gentlemen will excuse us for a moment, I propose that you and I, doctor, should go round at once to the Horners. I know the parson and his son will both be there just now. And what I want to do, doctor, is this. Nobody in the village knows yet, I think, about your autopsy and its result. I want you simply to tell both the clergyman and his son, while they are there together, the exact fact of the case; that Maltravers died by poison and not by a blow.’

Dr Mulborough had reason to reconsider his incredulity when told that it was an extraordinary village. The scene which ensued, when he actually carried out the priest’s programme, was certainly of the sort in which a man, as the saying is, can hardly believe his eyes.

The Rev. Samuel Horner was standing in his black cassock, which threw up the silver of his venerable head; his hand rested at the moment on the lectern at which he often stood to study the Scripture, now possibly by accident only; but it gave him a greater look of authority. And opposite to him his mutinous son was sitting asprawl in a chair, smoking a cheap cigarette with an exceptionally heavy scowl; a lively picture of youthful impiety.

The old man courteously waved Father Brown to a seat, which he took and sat there silent, staring blandly at the ceiling. But something made Mulborough feel that he could deliver his important news more impressively standing up.

‘I feel,’ he said, ‘that you ought to be informed, as in some sense the spiritual father of this community, that one terrible tragedy in its record has taken on a new significance; possibly even more terrible. You will recall the sad business of the death of Maltravers; who was adjudged to have been killed with the blow of a stick, probably wielded by some rustic enemy.’

The clergyman made a gesture with a wavering hand. ‘God forbid,’ he said, ‘that I should say anything that might seem to palliate murderous violence in any case. But when an actor brings his wickedness into this innocent village, he is challenging the judgement of God.’

‘Perhaps,’ said the doctor gravely. ‘But anyhow it was not so that the judgement fell. I have just been commissioned to conduct a post - mortem on the body; and I can assure you, first, that the blow on the head could not conceivably have caused the death; and, second, that the body was full of poison, which undoubtedly caused death.’

Young Hurrel Horner sent his cigarette, flying and was on his feet with the lightness and swiftness of a cat. His leap landed him within a yard of the reading - desk.

‘Are you certain of this?’ he gasped. ‘Are you absolutely certain that that blow could not cause death?’

‘Absolutely certain,’ said the doctor.

‘Well,’ said Hurrel, ‘I almost wish this one could.’

In a flash, before anyone could move a finger, he had struck the parson a stunning crack on the mouth, dashing him backwards like a disjointed black doll against the door.

‘What are you doing?’ cried Mulborough, shaken from head to foot with the shock and mere sound of the blow. ‘Father Brown, what is this madman doing?’

But Father Brown had not stirred; he was still staring serenely at the ceiling.

‘I was waiting for him to do that,’ said the priest placidly. ‘I rather wonder he hasn’t done it before.’

‘Good God,’ cried the doctor. ‘I know we thought he was wronged in some ways; but to strike his father; to strike a clergyman and a non - combatant - ’

‘He has not struck his father; and he has not struck a clergyman,’ said Father Brown. ‘He has struck a blackmailing blackguard of an actor dressed up as a clergyman, who has lived on him like a leech for years. Now he knows he is free of the blackmail, he lets fly; and I can’t say I blame him much. More especially as I have very strong suspicions that the blackmailer is a poisoner as well. I think, Mulborough, you had better ring up the police.’

«È quell’attore melodrammatico che ci tormenta di continuo,» disse. «Ha una faida fissa con un qualche compare istrione morto e sepolto, che non può avere nulla a che vedere col caso. Ci rifiutiamo tutti di riceverlo, tranne il dottore, che lo ricevette; e il dottore dice che è pazzo.»

«Sì,» disse Father Brown, increspando le labbra pensosamente. «Direi che è pazzo. Ma naturalmente non ci può essere alcun dubbio che abbia ragione.»

«Ragione?» esclamò Carver bruscamente. «Ragione su cosa?»

«Sul fatto che questo sia collegato alla vecchia compagnia teatrale,» disse Father Brown. «Sapete qual è stata la prima cosa che mi ha lasciato perplesso in questa storia? È stata quella nozione che Maltravers fosse stato ucciso dai villici perché aveva insultato il loro villaggio. È straordinario ciò che i giudici istruttori riescono a far credere ai giurati; e i giornalisti, naturalmente, sono incredibilmente creduloni. Non possono sapere granché dei villici inglesi. Io sono io stesso un villico inglese; perlomeno sono cresciuto, insieme ad altre rape, nell’Essex. Riuscite a immaginare un bracciante agricolo inglese che idealizza e personifica il proprio villaggio, come il cittadino di un’antica città-stato greca; che sguaina la spada per il suo sacro vessillo, come un uomo nella minuscola repubblica medievale di una città italiana? Riuscite a sentire un allegro vecchio nonnino dire: “Il sangue, il sangue soltanto, può cancellare l’unica macchia sullo stemma di Potter’s Pond”? Per San Giorgio e il Drago, magari lo facessero! Ma, in realtà, ho un argomento più pratico a favore dell’altra ipotesi.»

Fece una pausa per un momento, come per raccogliere i pensieri, poi proseguì: «Fraintesero il senso di quelle poche ultime parole che il povero Maltravers fu udito dire. Non stava dicendo ai villici che il villaggio era soltanto un borghetto. Stava parlando a un attore; stavano per mettere in scena uno spettacolo in cui Fitzgerald doveva essere Fortebraccio, l’ignoto Hankin doveva essere Polonius, e Maltravers, senza dubbio, il Principe di Danimarca. Forse qualcun altro voleva la parte o aveva idee sulla parte; e Maltravers disse con collera: “Saresti un miserabile piccolo Amleto”; tutto qui.»

Il dottor Mulborough fissava; sembrava digerire il suggerimento lentamente ma senza difficoltà. Alla fine disse, prima che gli altri potessero parlare: «E cosa suggerite che facciamo adesso?»

Father Brown si alzò piuttosto bruscamente; ma parlò abbastanza cortesemente. «Se questi signori vorranno scusarci per un momento, propongo che voi e io, dottore, ci rechiamo subito dagli Horner. So che il parroco e suo figlio saranno entrambi là proprio adesso. E ciò che voglio fare, dottore, è questo. Nessuno nel villaggio sa ancora, credo, della vostra autopsia e del suo esito. Voglio che voi diciate semplicemente sia all’ecclesiastico sia al figlio, mentre sono là insieme, il fatto esatto del caso; che Maltravers è morto per veleno e non per un colpo.»

Il dottor Mulborough ebbe ragione di riconsiderare la propria incredulità quando gli fu detto che si trattava di un villaggio straordinario. La scena che ne seguì, quando egli mise effettivamente in atto il programma del prete, fu di certo di quel genere in cui un uomo, come si suol dire, quasi non crede ai propri occhi.

Il reverendo Samuel Horner stava ritto nella sua nera tonaca, che faceva risaltare l’argento del suo venerabile capo; la mano gli posava in quel momento sul leggìo al quale spesso si fermava a studiare la Scrittura, ora forse soltanto per caso; ma ciò gli conferiva un maggiore aspetto di autorità. E di fronte a lui il figlio ammutinato sedeva sbracato su una sedia, fumando una sigaretta a buon mercato con un cipiglio eccezionalmente greve; un vivace ritratto di giovanile empietà.

Il vecchio con cortesia fece cenno a Father Brown di sedersi, cosa che egli fece, e restò là seduto in silenzio, fissando placidamente il soffitto. Ma qualcosa fece sentire a Mulborough che avrebbe potuto dare la sua importante notizia in modo più impressionante stando in piedi.

«Sento,» disse, «che dovreste essere informato, quale in un certo senso padre spirituale di questa comunità, che una terribile tragedia nei suoi annali ha assunto un nuovo significato; possibilmente ancor più terribile. Ricorderete la triste vicenda della morte di Maltravers; il quale fu giudicato essere stato ucciso col colpo di un bastone, probabilmente brandito da qualche nemico villico.»

L’ecclesiastico fece un gesto con la mano vacillante. «Dio non voglia,» disse, «che io dica qualcosa che possa sembrare attenuare la violenza omicida in qualsiasi caso. Ma quando un attore porta la sua malvagità in questo innocente villaggio, sfida il giudizio di Dio.»

«Forse,» disse gravemente il dottore. «Ma comunque non fu così che il giudizio cadde. Sono appena stato incaricato di condurre un’autopsia sul corpo; e posso assicurarvi, primo, che il colpo alla testa non avrebbe potuto in alcun modo concepibile causare la morte; e, secondo, che il corpo era pieno di veleno, il quale senza dubbio causò la morte.»

Il giovane Hurrel Horner mandò la sigaretta a volare e fu in piedi con la leggerezza e la rapidità di un gatto. Il suo balzo lo fece atterrare a una iarda dal leggìo.

«Ne siete certo?» ansimò. «Siete assolutamente certo che quel colpo non potesse causare la morte?»

«Assolutamente certo,» disse il dottore.

«Ebbene,» disse Hurrel, «quasi vorrei che questo lo potesse.»

In un lampo, prima che chiunque potesse muovere un dito, aveva assestato al parroco un colpo stordente sulla bocca, scaraventandolo all’indietro come una sconnessa bambola nera contro la porta.

«Cosa state facendo?» gridò Mulborough, scosso dalla testa ai piedi dallo shock e dal solo suono del colpo. «Father Brown, cosa sta facendo questo pazzo?»

Ma Father Brown non si era mosso; fissava ancora serenamente il soffitto.

«Aspettavo che lo facesse,» disse il prete placidamente. «Anzi mi stupisco che non l’abbia fatto prima.»

«Buon Dio,» gridò il dottore. «So che pensavamo fosse maltrattato in qualche modo; ma colpire il proprio padre; colpire un ecclesiastico e un non combattente…»

«Non ha colpito il proprio padre; e non ha colpito un ecclesiastico,» disse Father Brown. «Ha colpito un ricattatore mascalzone di attore travestito da ecclesiastico, che ha vissuto alle sue spalle come una sanguisuga per anni. Ora che sa di essere libero dal ricatto, dà sfogo; e non posso dire di biasimarlo molto. Tanto più che ho fortissimi sospetti che il ricattatore sia anche un avvelenatore, e come. Credo, Mulborough, che fareste meglio a telefonare alla polizia.»

They passed out of the room uninterrupted by the two others, the one dazed and staggered, the other still blind and snorting and panting with passions of relief and rage. But as they passed, Father Brown once turned his face to the young man; and the young man was one of the very few human beings who have seen that face implacable.

‘He was right there,’ said Father Brown. ‘When an actor brings his wickedness into this innocent village, he challenges the judgement of God.’

‘Well,’ said Father Brown, as he and the doctor again settled themselves in a railway carriage standing in the station of Potter’s Pond. ‘As you say, it’s a strange story; but I don’t think it’s any longer a mystery story. Anyhow, the story seems to me to have been roughly this. Maltravers came here, with part of his touring company; some of them went straight to Dutton - Abbot, where they were all presenting some melodrama about the early nineteenth century; he himself happened to be hanging about in his stage dress, the very distinctive dress of a dandy of that time. Another character was an old - fashioned parson, whose dark dress was less distinctive and might pass as being merely old - fashioned. This part was taken by a man who mostly acted old men; had acted Shylock and was afterwards going to act Polonius.

‘A third figure in the drama was our dramatic poet, who was also a dramatic performer, and quarrelled with Maltravers about how to present Hamlet, but more about personal things, too. I think it likely that he was in love with Mrs Maltravers even then; I don’t believe there was anything wrong with them; and I hope it may now be all right with them. But he may very well have resented Maltravers in his conjugal capacity; for Maltravers was a bully and likely to raise rows. In some such row they fought with sticks, and the poet hit Maltravers very hard on the head, and, in the light of the inquest, had every reason to suppose he had killed him.

‘A third person was present or privy to the incident, the man acting the old parson; and he proceeded to blackmail the alleged murderer, forcing from him the cost of his upkeep in some luxury as a retired clergyman. It was the obvious masquerade for such a man in such a place, simply to go on wearing his stage clothes as a retired clergyman. But he had his own reason for being a very retired clergyman. For the true story of Maltravers’ death was that he rolled into a deep undergrowth of bracken, gradually recovered, tried to walk towards a house, and was eventually overcome, not by the blow, but by the fact that the benevolent clergyman had given him poison an hour before, probably in a glass of port. I was beginning to think so, when I drank a glass of the parson’s port. It made me a little nervous. The police are working on that theory now; but whether they will be able to prove that part of the story, I don’t know. They will have to find the exact motive; but it’s obvious that this bunch of actors was buzzing with quarrels and Maltravers was very much hated.’

‘The police may prove something now they have got the suspicion,’ said Dr Mulborough. ‘What I don’t understand is why you ever began to suspect. Why in the world should you suspect that very blameless black - coated gentleman?’

Father Brown smiled faintly. ‘I suppose in one sense,’ he said, ‘it was a matter of special knowledge; almost a professional matter, but in a peculiar sense. You know our controversialists often complain that there is a great deal of ignorance about what our religion is really like. But it is really more curious than that. It is true, and it is not at all unnatural, that England does not know much about the Church of Rome. But England does not know much about the Church of England. Not even as much as I do. You would be astonished at how little the average public grasps about the Anglican controversies; lots of them don’t really know what is meant by a High Churchman or a Low Churchman, even on the particular points of practice, let alone the two theories of history and philosophy behind them. You can see this ignorance in any newspaper; in any merely popular novel or play.

‘Now the first thing that struck me was that this venerable cleric had got the whole thing incredibly mixed up. No Anglican parson could be so wrong about every Anglican problem. He was supposed to be an old Tory High Churchman; and then he boasted of being a Puritan. A man like that might personally be rather Puritanical; but he would never call it being a Puritan. He professed a horror of the stage; he didn’t know that High Churchmen generally don’t have that special horror, though Low Churchmen do. He talked like a Puritan about the Sabbath; and then he had a crucifix in his room. He evidently had no notion of what a very pious parson ought to be, except that he ought to be very solemn and venerable and frown upon the pleasures of the world.

‘All this time there was a subconscious notion running in my head; something I couldn’t fix in my memory; and then it came to me suddenly. This is a Stage Parson. That is exactly the vague venerable old fool who would be the nearest notion a popular playwright or play - actor of the old school had of anything so odd as a religious man.’

‘To say nothing of a physician of the old school,’ said Mulborough good

• humouredly, ‘who does not set up to know much about being a religious man.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ went on Father Brown, ‘there was a plainer and more glaring cause for suspicion. It concerned the Dark Lady of the Grange, who was supposed to be the Vampire of the Village.

I very early formed the impression that this black blot was rather the bright spot of the village. She was treated as a mystery; but there was really nothing mysterious about her. She had come down here quite recently, quite openly, under her own name, to help the new inquiries to be made about her own husband. He hadn’t treated her too well; but she had principles, suggesting that something was due to her married name and to common justice. For the same reason, she went to live in the house outside which her husband had been found dead. The other innocent and straightforward case, besides the Vampire of the Village, was the Scandal of the Village, the parson’s profligate son. He also made no disguise of his profession or past connection with the acting world. That’s why I didn’t suspect him as I did the parson. But you’ll already have guessed a real and relevant reason for suspecting the parson.’

‘Yes, I think I see,’ said the doctor, ‘that’s why you bring in the name of the actress.’

‘Yes, I mean his fanatical fixity about not seeing the actress,’ remarked the priest. ‘But he didn’t really object to seeing her. He objected to her seeing him.’

‘Yes, I see that,’ assented the other. ‘If she had seen the Rev. Samuel Horner, she would instantly have recognized the very unreverend actor Hankin, disguised as a sham parson with a pretty bad character behind the disguise. Well, that is the whole of this simple village idyll, I think. But you will admit I kept my promise; I have shown you something in the village considerably more creepy than a corpse; even a corpse stuffed with poison. The black coat of a parson stuffed with a blackmailer is at least worth noticing and my live man is much deadlier than your dead one.’

‘Yes,’ said the doctor, settling himself back comfortably in the cushions. ‘If it comes to a little cosy company on a railway journey, I should prefer the corpse.’

THE END

Uscirono dalla stanza senza essere interrotti dagli altri due, l’uno stordito e barcollante, l’altro ancora cieco e sbuffante e ansante di passioni di sollievo e rabbia. Ma mentre passavano, Father Brown volse una volta il viso verso il giovane; e il giovane fu uno dei pochissimi esseri umani che abbiano visto quel viso implacabile.

«Aveva ragione, in questo,» disse Father Brown. «Quando un attore porta la sua malvagità in questo innocente villaggio, sfida il giudizio di Dio.»

«Ebbene,» disse Father Brown, mentre lui e il dottore si sistemavano di nuovo in una carrozza ferroviaria ferma nella stazione di Potter’s Pond. «Come dite voi, è una strana storia; ma non credo che sia più una storia di mistero. Comunque, la storia mi pare sia stata, per sommi capi, questa. Maltravers venne qui, con una parte della sua compagnia in tournée; alcuni di loro andarono direttamente a Dutton-Abbot, dove presentavano tutti insieme un qualche melodramma sui primi anni dell’Ottocento; a lui capitò di gironzolare nel suo costume di scena, il costume assai caratteristico di un dandy di quel tempo. Un altro personaggio era un parroco all’antica, il cui abito scuro era meno caratteristico e poteva passare per semplicemente fuori moda. Questa parte era sostenuta da un uomo che per lo più recitava vecchi; aveva recitato Shylock ed era in seguito destinato a recitare Polonius.

«Una terza figura del dramma era il nostro poeta drammatico, che era anche un attore drammatico, e aveva litigato con Maltravers su come rappresentare Amleto, ma anche, e più, su questioni personali. Ritengo probabile che fosse innamorato di Mrs Maltravers già allora; non credo che ci fosse nulla di male fra loro; e spero che ora possa andar tutto bene per loro. Ma può ben darsi che risentisse di Maltravers nella sua veste coniugale; poiché Maltravers era un prepotente e incline a scatenare risse. In una qualche rissa di quel genere si batterono coi bastoni, e il poeta colpì Maltravers assai forte alla testa, e, alla luce dell’inchiesta, ebbe ogni ragione di supporre di averlo ucciso.

«Una terza persona era presente o al corrente dell’incidente, l’uomo che recitava il vecchio parroco; ed egli si mise a ricattare il presunto assassino, estorcendogli il costo del proprio mantenimento in un certo lusso come ecclesiastico in pensione. Era l’ovvia mascherata per un uomo simile in un luogo simile, semplicemente continuare a indossare i suoi abiti di scena come ecclesiastico in pensione. Ma aveva una sua ragione per essere un ecclesiastico assai ritirato. Poiché la vera storia della morte di Maltravers era che egli rotolò in una fitta boscaglia di felci, si riprese a poco a poco, cercò di camminare verso una casa, e fu infine sopraffatto, non dal colpo, ma dal fatto che il benevolo ecclesiastico gli aveva dato del veleno un’ora prima, probabilmente in un bicchiere di Porto. Cominciavo a pensarlo, quando bevvi un bicchiere del Porto del parroco. Mi rese un po’ nervoso. La polizia sta lavorando su questa teoria adesso; ma se riusciranno a provare quella parte della storia, non lo so. Dovranno trovare il movente esatto; ma è ovvio che questo gruppo di attori brulicava di litigi e che Maltravers era assai odiato.»

«La polizia può provare qualcosa ora che ha il sospetto,» disse il dottor Mulborough. «Ciò che non capisco è come mai abbiate cominciato a sospettare. Perché mai al mondo avreste dovuto sospettare di quel gentiluomo dalla nera tonaca, così irreprensibile?»

Father Brown sorrise debolmente. «Suppongo che in un certo senso,» disse, «fosse una questione di conoscenza specifica; quasi una questione professionale, ma in un senso peculiare. Sapete che i nostri polemisti si lamentano spesso che ci sia una gran quantità di ignoranza su cosa sia davvero la nostra religione. Ma è in realtà più curioso di così. È vero, e non è affatto innaturale, che l’Inghilterra non sappia granché della Chiesa di Roma. Ma l’Inghilterra non sa granché neppure della Chiesa d’Inghilterra. Neanche quanto ne so io. Restereste stupito di quanto poco il pubblico medio comprenda delle controversie anglicane; molti di loro non sanno davvero cosa si intenda per uomo di Alta Chiesa o di Bassa Chiesa, persino sui punti particolari della pratica, per non dire delle due teorie della storia e della filosofia che vi stanno dietro. Potete vedere questa ignoranza in qualsiasi giornale; in qualsiasi romanzo o commedia meramente popolare.

«Ora, la prima cosa che mi colpì fu che questo venerabile chierico aveva confuso l’intera faccenda in modo incredibile. Nessun parroco anglicano potrebbe sbagliarsi così su ogni problema anglicano. Si presumeva fosse un vecchio Tory di Alta Chiesa; e poi si vantava di essere un puritano. Un uomo così potrebbe personalmente essere piuttosto puritaneggiante; ma non la chiamerebbe mai essere un puritano. Professava un orrore per il palcoscenico; non sapeva che gli uomini di Alta Chiesa generalmente non hanno quello speciale orrore, mentre quelli di Bassa Chiesa sì. Parlava come un puritano del Sabato; e poi aveva un crocifisso nella sua stanza. Evidentemente non aveva idea di come debba essere un parroco assai pio, se non che dev’essere molto solenne e venerabile e disapprovare i piaceri del mondo.

«Per tutto questo tempo una nozione subconscia mi correva per la testa; qualcosa che non riuscivo a fissare nella memoria; e poi mi venne all’improvviso. Questo è un Parroco da Palcoscenico. È esattamente il vago e venerabile vecchio sciocco che sarebbe la nozione più prossima che un commediografo popolare o un attore della vecchia scuola avesse di qualcosa di tanto strano come un uomo religioso.»

«Per non dire di un medico della vecchia scuola,» disse Mulborough di buon umore, «che non pretende di sapere granché su cosa significhi essere un uomo religioso.»

«In effetti,» proseguì Father Brown, «c’era una causa di sospetto più semplice e più lampante. Riguardava la Dama Bruna della Grange, che si presumeva fosse il Vampiro del Villaggio.

Assai per tempo mi formai l’impressione che questa nera macchia fosse piuttosto il punto luminoso del villaggio. Veniva trattata come un mistero; ma non c’era in realtà nulla di misterioso in lei. Era venuta quaggiù del tutto di recente, del tutto apertamente, sotto il proprio nome, per aiutare le nuove indagini che si dovevano fare sul suo stesso marito. Lui non l’aveva trattata troppo bene; ma lei aveva dei princìpi, che le suggerivano che qualcosa fosse dovuto al suo nome di sposata e alla comune giustizia. Per la stessa ragione, andò a vivere nella casa fuori dalla quale il marito era stato trovato morto. L’altro caso innocente e lineare, oltre al Vampiro del Villaggio, era lo Scandalo del Villaggio, il dissoluto figlio del parroco. Anch’egli non fece alcun mistero della propria professione o del passato legame col mondo del teatro. È per questo che non sospettai di lui come sospettai del parroco. Ma avrete già indovinato una ragione reale e pertinente per sospettare del parroco.»

«Sì, credo di capire,» disse il dottore, «è per questo che tirate in ballo il nome dell’attrice.»

«Sì, intendo la sua fanatica fissità nel non voler vedere l’attrice,» osservò il prete. «Ma in realtà non aveva nulla in contrario a vedere lei. Aveva in contrario che lei vedesse lui.»

«Sì, questo lo capisco,» convenne l’altro. «Se avesse visto il reverendo Samuel Horner, avrebbe all’istante riconosciuto l’assai poco reverendo attore Hankin, travestito da finto parroco con un carattere piuttosto losco dietro il travestimento. Ebbene, questo è tutto quanto di questo semplice idillio di villaggio, credo. Ma ammetterete che ho mantenuto la mia promessa; vi ho mostrato nel villaggio qualcosa di considerevolmente più raccapricciante di un cadavere; persino di un cadavere imbottito di veleno. La nera tonaca di un parroco imbottita di un ricattatore vale perlomeno di essere notata, e il mio uomo vivo è assai più letale del vostro morto.»

«Sì,» disse il dottore, sistemandosi comodamente all’indietro contro i cuscini. «Se si tratta di una piccola e intima compagnia in un viaggio ferroviario, preferirei il cadavere.»

FINE