the wisdom of father brown-第34章

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　　　　　An　extraordinary　expression　flashed　across　her　face；　very　different　from　pity；　modesty；　remorse；　or　anything　her　companion　had　expected：　　her　voice　became　suddenly　strong　and　full。　　〃I　don't　believe；〃　she　said；　〃he　ever　cared　about　me　a　rap。　　He　hated　my　husband。〃

　　　　　〃Why？〃　asked　the　other；　and　turned　his　round　face　from　the　sky　to　the　lady。

　　　　　〃He　hated　my　husband　because。。。it　is　so　strange　I　hardly　know　how　to　say　it。。。because。。。〃

　　　　　〃Yes？〃　said　Brown　patiently。

　　　　　〃Because　my　husband　wouldn't　hate　him。〃

　　　　　Father　Brown　only　nodded；　and　seemed　still　to　be　listening；　he　differed　from　most　detectives　in　fact　and　fiction　in　a　small　point　he　never　pretended　not　to　understand　when　he　understood　perfectly　well。

　　　　　Mrs　Boulnois　drew　near　once　more　with　the　same　contained　glow　of　certainty。　　〃My　husband；〃　she　said；　〃is　a　great　man。　　Sir　Claude　Champion　was　not　a　great　man：　　he　was　a　celebrated　and　successful　man。　　My　husband　has　never　been　celebrated　or　successful；　and　it　is　the　solemn　truth　that　he　has　never　dreamed　of　being　so。　　He　no　more　expects　to　be　famous　for　thinking　than　for　smoking　cigars。　　On　all　that　side　he　has　a　sort　of　splendid　stupidity。　　He　has　never　grown　up。　　He　still　liked　Champion　exactly　as　he　liked　him　at　school；　he　admired　him　as　he　would　admire　a　conjuring　trick　done　at　the　dinner…table。　But　he　couldn't　be　got　to　conceive　the　notion　of　envying　Champion。　　And　Champion　wanted　to　be　envied。　　He　went　mad　and　killed　himself　for　that。〃

　　　　　〃Yes；〃　said　Father　Brown；　〃I　think　I　begin　to　understand。〃

　　　　　〃Oh；　don't　you　see？〃　she　cried；　〃the　whole　picture　is　made　for　that　the　place　is　planned　for　it。　　Champion　put　John　in　a　little　house　at　his　very　door；　like　a　dependantto　make　him　feel　a　failure。　　He　never　felt　it。　　He　thinks　no　more　about　such　things　than　than　an　absent…minded　lion。　　Champion　would　burst　in　on　John's　shabbiest　hours　or　homeliest　meals　with　some　dazzling　present　or　announcement　or　expedition　that　made　it　like　the　visit　of　Haroun　Alraschid；　and　John　would　accept　or　refuse　amiably　with　one　eye　off；　so　to　speak；　like　one　lazy　schoolboy　agreeing　or　disagreeing　with　another。　　After　five　years　of　it　John　had　not　turned　a　hair；　and　Sir　Claude　Champion　was　a　monomaniac。〃

　　　　　〃And　Haman　began　to　tell　them；〃　said　Father　Brown；　〃of　all　the　things　wherein　the　king　had　honoured　him；　and　he　said：　‘All　these　things　profit　me　nothing　while　I　see　Mordecai　the　Jew　sitting　in　the　gate。'〃

　　　　　〃The　crisis　came；〃　Mrs　Boulnois　continued；　〃when　I　persuaded　John　to　let　me　take　down　some　of　his　speculations　and　send　them　to　a　magazine。　　They　began　to　attract　attention；　especially　in　America；　and　one　paper　wanted　to　interview　him。　When　Champion　（who　was　interviewed　nearly　every　day）　heard　of　this　late　little　crumb　of　success　falling　to　his　unconscious　rival；　the　last　link　snapped　that　held　back　his　devilish　hatred。　Then　he　began　to　lay　that　insane　siege　to　my　own　love　and　honour　which　has　been　the　talk　of　the　shire。　　You　will　ask　me　why　I　allowed　such　atrocious　attentions。　　I　answer　that　I　could　not　have　declined　them　except　by　explaining　to　my　husband；　and　there　are　some　things　the　soul　cannot　do；　as　the　body　cannot　fly。　　Nobody　could　have　explained　to　my　husband。　　Nobody　could　do　it　now。　　If　you　said　to　him　in　so　many　words；　‘Champion　is　stealing　your　wife；'　he　would　think　the　joke　a　little　vulgar：　　that　it　could　be　anything　but　a　jokethat　notion　could　find　no　crack　in　his　great　skull　to　get　in　by。　　Well；　John　was　to　come　and　see　us　act　this　evening；　but　just　as　we　were　starting　he　said　he　wouldn't；　he　had　got　an　interesting　book　and　a　cigar。　　I　told　this　to　Sir　Claude；　and　it　was　his　death…blow。　　The　monomaniac　suddenly　saw　despair。　　He　stabbed　himself；　crying　out　like　a　devil　that　Boulnois　was　slaying　him；　he　lies　there　in　the　garden　dead　of　his　own　jealousy　to　produce　jealousy；　and　John　is　sitting　in　the　dining…room　reading　a　book。〃

　　　　　There　was　another　silence；　and　then　the　little　priest　said：　〃There　is　only　one　weak　point；　Mrs　Boulnois；　in　all　your　very　vivid　account。　　Your　husband　is　not　sitting　in　the　dining…room　reading　a　book。　　That　American　reporter　told　me　he　had　been　to　your　house；　and　your　butler　told　him　Mr　Boulnois　had　gone　to　Pendragon　Park　after　all。〃

　　　　　Her　bright　eyes　widened　to　an　almost　electric　glare；　and　yet　it　seemed　rather　bewilderment　than　confusion　or　fear。　　〃Why；　what　can　you　mean？〃　she　cried。　　〃All　the　servants　were　out　of　the　house；　seeing　the　theatricals。　　And　we　don't　keep　a　butler；　thank　goodness！〃

　　　　　Father　Brown　started　and　spun　half　round　like　an　absurd　teetotum。　　〃What；　what？〃　he　cried　seeming　galvanized　into　sudden　life。　　〃Look　hereI　saycan　I　make　your　husband　hear　if　I　go　to　the　house？〃

　　　　　〃Oh；　the　servants　will　be　back　by　now；〃　she　said；　wondering。

　　　　　〃Right；　right！〃　rejoined　the　cleric　energetically；　and　set　off　scuttling　up　the　path　towards　the　Park　gates。　　He　turned　once　to　say：　　〃Better　get　hold　of　that　Yankee；　or　‘Crime　of　John　Boulnois'　will　be　all　over　the　Republic　in　large　letters。〃

　　　　　〃You　don't　understand；〃　said　Mrs　Boulnois。　　〃He　wouldn't　mind。　　I　don't　think　he　imagines　that　America　really　is　a　place。〃

　　　　　When　Father　Brown　reached　the　house　with　the　beehive　and　the　drowsy　dog；　a　small　and　neat　maid…servant　showed　him　into　the　dining…room；　where　Boulnois　sat　reading　by　a　shaded　lamp；　exactly　as　his　wife　described　him。　　A　decanter　of　port　and　a　wineglass　were　at　his　elbow；　and　the　instant　the　priest　entered　he　noted　the　long　ash　stand　out　unbroken　on　his　cigar。

　　　　　〃He　has　been　here　for　half　an　hour　at　least；〃　thought　Father　Brown。　　In　fact；　he　had　the　air　of　sitting　where　he　had　sat　when　his　dinner　was　cleared　away。

　　　　　〃Don't　get　up；　Mr　Boulnois；〃　said　the　priest　in　his　pleasant；　prosaic　way。　　〃I　shan't　interrupt　you　a　moment。　　I　fear　I　break　in　on　some　of　your　scientific　studies。〃

　　　　　〃No；〃　said　Boulnois；　〃I　was　reading　‘The　Bloody　Thumb。'〃　He　said　it　with　neither　frown　nor　smile；　and　his　visitor　was　conscious　of　a　certain　deep　and　virile　indifference　in　the　man　which　his　wife　had　called　greatness。　　He　laid　down　a　gory　yellow　〃shocker〃　without　even　feeling　its　incongruity　enough　to　comment　on　it　humorously。　　John　Boulnois　was　a　big；　slow…moving　man　with　a　massive　head；　partly　grey　and　partly　bald；　and　blunt；　burly　features。　　He　was　in　shabby　and　very　old…fashioned　evening…dress；　with　a　narrow　triangular　opening　of　shirt…front：　　he　had　assumed　it　that　evening　in　his　original　purpose　of　going　to　see　his　wife　act　Juliet。

　　　　　〃I　won't　keep　you　long　from　‘The　Bloody　Thumb'　or　any　other　catastrophic　affairs；〃　said　Father　Brown；　smiling。　　〃I　only　came　to　ask　you　about　the　crime　you　committed　this　evening。〃

　　　　　Boulnois　looked　at　him　steadily；　but　a　red　bar　began　to　show　across　his　broad　brow；　and　he　seemed　like　one　discovering　embarrassment　for　the　first　time。

　　　　　〃I　know　it　was　a　strange　crime；〃　assented　Brown　in　a　low　voice。　　〃Stranger　than　murder　perhapsto　you。　　The　little　sins　are　sometimes　harder　to　confess　than　the　big　onesbut　that's　why　it's　so　important　to　confess　them。　　Your　crime　is　committed　by　every　fashionable　hostess　six　times　a　week：　　and　yet　you　find　it　sticks　to　your　tongue　like　a　nameless　atrocity。〃

　　　　　〃It　makes　one　feel；〃　said　the　philosopher　slowly；　〃such　a　damned　fool。〃

　　　　　〃I　know；〃　assented　the　other；　〃but　one　often　has　to　choose　between　feeling　a　damned　fool　and　being　one。〃

　　　　　〃I　can't　analyse　myself　well；〃　went　on　Boulnois；　〃but　sitting　in　that　chair　with　that　story　I　was　as　happy　as　a　schoolboy　on　a　half…holiday。　　It　was　security；　eternityI　can't　convey　it。。。　the　cigars　were　within　reach。。。the　matches　were　within　reach。。。　the　Thumb　had　four　more　appearances　to。。。it　was　not　only　a　peace；　but　a　plenitude。　　Then　that　bell　rang；　and　I　thought　for　one　long；　mortal　minute　that　I　couldn't　get　out　of　that　chairliterally；　physically；　muscularly　couldn't。　　Then　I　did　it　like　a　man　lifting　the　world；　because　I　knew　all　the　servants　were　out。　　I　opened　the　front　door；　and　there　was　a　little　man　with　his　mouth　open　to　speak　and　his　notebook　open　to　write　in。　　I　remembered　the　Yankee　interviewer　I　had　forgotten。　　His　hair　was　parted　in　the　middle；　and　I　tell　you　that　murder〃

　　　　　〃I　understand；〃　said　Father　Brown。　　〃I've　seen　him。〃

　　　　　〃I　didn't　commit　murder；〃　continued　the　Catastrophist　mildly；　〃but　only　perjury。　　I　said　I　had　gone　across　to　Pendragon　Park　and　shut　the　door　in　his　face。　　That　is　my　crime；　Father　Brown；　and　I　don't　know　what　penance　you　would　inflict　for　it。〃

　　　　　〃I　shan't　inflict　any　penance；〃　said　the　clerical　gentleman；　collecting　his　heavy　hat　and　umbrella　with　an　air　of　some　amusement；　〃quite　the　contrary。　　I　came　here　specially　to　let　you　off　the　little　penance　which　would　otherwise　have　followed　your　little　offence。〃

　　　　　〃And　what；〃　asked　Boulnois；　smiling；　〃is　the　little　penance　I　have　so　luckily　been　let　off？〃

　　　　　〃Being　hanged；〃　said　Father　Brown。



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　TWELVE


　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　The　Fairy　Tale　of　Father　Brown


THE　picturesque　city　and　state　of　Heiligwaldenstein　was　one　of　those　toy　kingdoms　of　which　certain　parts　of　the　German　Empire　still　consist。　　It　had　come　under　the　Prussian　hegemony　quite　late　in　history　hardly　fifty　years　before　the　fine　summer　day　when　Flambeau　and　Father　Brown　found　themselves　sitting　in　its　gardens　and　drinking　its　beer。　　There　had　been　not　a　little　of　war　and　wild　justice　there　within　living　memory；　as　soon　will　be　shown。　　But　in　merely　looking　at　it　one　could　not　dismiss　that　impression　of　childishness　which　is　the　most　charming　side　of　Germanythose　little　pantomime；　paternal　monarchies　in　which　a　king　seems　as　domestic　as　a　cook。　　The　German　soldiers　by　the　innumerable　sentry…boxes　looked　strangely　like　German　toys；　and　the　clean…cut　battlements　of　the　castle；　gilded　by　the　sunshine；　looked　the　more　like　the　gilt　gingerbread。　　For　it　was　brilliant　weather。　　The　sky　was　as　Prussian　a　blue　as　Potsdam　itself　could　require；　but　it　was　yet　more　like　that　lavish　and　glowing　use　of　the　colour　which　a　child　extracts　from　a　shilling　paint…box。　　Even　the　grey…ribbed　trees　looked　young；　for　the　pointed　buds　on　them　were　still　pink；　and　in　a　pattern　against　the　strong　blue　looked　like　innumerable　childish　figures。

　　　　　Despite　his　prosaic　appearance　and　generally　practical　walk　of　life；　Father　Brown　was　not　without　a　certain　streak　of　romance　in　his　composition；　though　he　generally　kept　his　daydreams　to　himself；　as　many　children　do。　　Amid　the　brisk；　bright　colours　of　such　a　day；　and　in　the　heraldic　framework　of　such　a　town；　he　did　feel　rather　as　if　he　had　entered　a　fairy　tale。　　He　took　a　childish　pleasure；　as　a　younger　brother　might；　in　the　formidable　sword…stick　which　Flambeau　always　flung　as　he　walked；　and　which　now　stood　upright　beside　his　tall　mug　of　Munich。　　Nay；　in　his　sleepy　irresponsibility；　he　even　found　himself　eyeing　the　knobbed　and　clumsy　head　of　his　own　shabby　umbrella；　with　some　faint　memories　of　the　ogre's　club　in　a　coloured　toy…book。　　But　he　never　composed　anything　in　the　form　of　fiction；　unless　it　be　the　tale　that　follows：

　　　　　〃I　wonder；〃　he　said；　〃whether　one　would　have　real　adventures　in　a　place　like　this；　if　one　put　oneself　in　the