the wisdom of father brown-第4节

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　A　place　may　be　permitted　to　intuition；　perhaps　（or　poetry　if　you　prefer　the　term）；　but　only　because　the　corresponding　details　cannot　as　yet　be　ascertained。　　In　the　absence　of　Mr　Glass〃

　　　　　〃That's　it；　that's　it；〃　said　the　little　priest；　nodding　quite　eagerly；　〃that's　the　first　idea　to　get　fixed；　the　absence　of　Mr　Glass。　　He　is　so　extremely　absent。　　I　suppose；〃　he　added　reflectively；　〃that　there　was　never　anybody　so　absent　as　Mr　Glass。〃

　　　　　〃Do　you　mean　he　is　absent　from　the　town？〃　demanded　the　doctor。

　　　　　〃I　mean　he　is　absent　from　everywhere；〃　answered　Father　Brown；　〃he　is　absent　from　the　Nature　of　Things；　so　to　speak。〃

　　　　　〃Do　you　seriously　mean；〃　said　the　specialist　with　a　smile；　〃that　there　is　no　such　person？〃

　　　　　The　priest　made　a　sign　of　assent。　　〃It　does　seem　a　pity；〃　he　said。

　　　　　Orion　Hood　broke　into　a　contemptuous　laugh。　　〃Well；〃　he　said；　〃before　we　go　on　to　the　hundred　and　one　other　evidences；　let　us　take　the　first　proof　we　found；　the　first　fact　we　fell　over　when　we　fell　into　this　room。　　If　there　is　no　Mr　Glass；　whose　hat　is　this？〃

　　　　　〃It　is　Mr　Todhunter's；〃　replied　Father　Brown。

　　　　　〃But　it　doesn't　fit　him；〃　cried　Hood　impatiently。　　〃He　couldn't　possibly　wear　it！〃

　　　　　Father　Brown　shook　his　head　with　ineffable　mildness。　　〃I　never　said　he　could　wear　it；〃　he　answered。　　〃I　said　it　was　his　hat。　　Or；　if　you　insist　on　a　shade　of　difference；　a　hat　that　is　his。〃

　　　　　〃And　what　is　the　shade　of　difference？〃　asked　the　criminologist　with　a　slight　sneer。

　　　　　〃My　good　sir；〃　cried　the　mild　little　man；　with　his　first　movement　akin　to　impatience；　〃if　you　will　walk　down　the　street　to　the　nearest　hatter's　shop；　you　will　see　that　there　is；　in　common　speech；　a　difference　between　a　man's　hat　and　the　hats　that　are　his。〃

　　　　　〃But　a　hatter；〃　protested　Hood；　〃can　get　money　out　of　his　stock　of　new　hats。　　What　could　Todhunter　get　out　of　this　one　old　hat？〃

　　　　　〃Rabbits；〃　replied　Father　Brown　promptly。

　　　　　〃What？〃　cried　Dr　Hood。

　　　　　〃Rabbits；　ribbons；　sweetmeats；　goldfish；　rolls　of　coloured　paper；〃　said　the　reverend　gentleman　with　rapidity。　　〃Didn't　you　see　it　all　when　you　found　out　the　faked　ropes？　　It's　just　the　same　with　the　sword。　　Mr　Todhunter　hasn't　got　a　scratch　on　him；　as　you　say；　but　he's　got　a　scratch　in　him；　if　you　follow　me。〃

　　　　　〃Do　you　mean　inside　Mr　Todhunter's　clothes？〃　inquired　Mrs　MacNab　sternly。

　　　　　〃I　do　not　mean　inside　Mr　Todhunter's　clothes；〃　said　Father　Brown。　　〃I　mean　inside　Mr　Todhunter。〃

　　　　　〃Well；　what　in　the　name　of　Bedlam　do　you　mean？〃

　　　　　〃Mr　Todhunter；〃　explained　Father　Brown　placidly；　〃is　learning　to　be　a　professional　conjurer；　as　well　as　juggler；　ventriloquist；　and　expert　in　the　rope　trick。　　The　conjuring　explains　the　hat。　　It　is　without　traces　of　hair；　not　because　it　is　worn　by　the　prematurely　bald　Mr　Glass；　but　because　it　has　never　been　worn　by　anybody。　　The　juggling　explains　the　three　glasses；　which　Todhunter　was　teaching　himself　to　throw　up　and　catch　in　rotation。　　But；　being　only　at　the　stage　of　practice；　he　smashed　one　glass　against　the　ceiling。　　And　the　juggling　also　explains　the　sword；　which　it　was　Mr　Todhunter's　professional　pride　and　duty　to　swallow。　　But；　again；　being　at　the　stage　of　practice；　he　very　slightly　grazed　the　inside　of　his　throat　with　the　weapon。　　Hence　he　has　a　wound　inside　him；　which　I　am　sure　（from　the　expression　on　his　face）　is　not　a　serious　one。　　He　was　also　practising　the　trick　of　a　release　from　ropes；　like　the　Davenport　Brothers；　and　he　was　just　about　to　free　himself　when　we　all　burst　into　the　room。　　The　cards；　of　course；　are　for　card　tricks；　and　they　are　scattered　on　the　floor　because　he　had　just　been　practising　one　of　those　dodges　of　sending　them　flying　through　the　air。　　He　merely　kept　his　trade　secret；　because　he　had　to　keep　his　tricks　secret；　like　any　other　conjurer。　　But　the　mere　fact　of　an　idler　in　a　top　hat　having　once　looked　in　at　his　back　window；　and　been　driven　away　by　him　with　great　indignation；　was　enough　to　set　us　all　on　a　wrong　track　of　romance；　and　make　us　imagine　his　whole　life　overshadowed　by　the　silk…hatted　spectre　of　Mr　Glass。〃

　　　　　〃But　What　about　the　two　voices？〃　asked　Maggie；　staring。

　　　　　〃Have　you　never　heard　a　ventriloquist？〃　asked　Father　Brown。　　〃Don't　you　know　they　speak　first　in　their　natural　voice；　and　then　answer　themselves　in　just　that　shrill；　squeaky；　unnatural　voice　that　you　heard？〃

　　　　　There　was　a　long　silence；　and　Dr　Hood　regarded　the　little　man　who　had　spoken　with　a　dark　and　attentive　smile。　　〃You　are　certainly　a　very　ingenious　person；〃　he　said；　〃it　could　not　have　been　done　better　in　a　book。　　But　there　is　just　one　part　of　Mr　Glass　you　have　not　succeeded　in　explaining　away；　and　that　is　his　name。　　Miss　MacNab　distinctly　heard　him　so　addressed　by　Mr　Todhunter。〃

　　　　　The　Rev。　　Mr　Brown　broke　into　a　rather　childish　giggle。　　〃Well；　that；〃　he　said；　〃that's　the　silliest　part　of　the　whole　silly　story。　　When　our　juggling　friend　here　threw　up　the　three　glasses　in　turn；　he　counted　them　aloud　as　he　caught　them；　and　also　commented　aloud　when　he　failed　to　catch　them。　　What　he　really　said　was：　　‘One；　two　and　threemissed　a　glass　one；　twomissed　a　glass。'　　And　so　on。〃

　　　　　There　was　a　second　of　stillness　in　the　room；　and　then　everyone　with　one　accord　burst　out　laughing。　　As　they　did　so　the　figure　in　the　corner　complacently　uncoiled　all　the　ropes　and　let　them　fall　with　a　flourish。　　Then；　advancing　into　the　middle　of　the　room　with　a　bow；　he　produced　from　his　pocket　a　big　bill　printed　in　blue　and　red；　which　announced　that　ZALADIN；　the　World's　Greatest　Conjurer；　Contortionist；　Ventriloquist　and　Human　Kangaroo　would　be　ready　with　an　entirely　new　series　of　Tricks　at　the　Empire　Pavilion；　Scarborough；　on　Monday　next　at　eight　o'clock　precisely。



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　TWO


　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　The　Paradise　of　Thieves


THE　great　Muscari；　most　original　of　the　young　Tuscan　poets；　walked　swiftly　into　his　favourite　restaurant；　which　overlooked　the　Mediterranean；　was　covered　by　an　awning　and　fenced　by　little　lemon　and　orange　trees。　　Waiters　in　white　aprons　were　already　laying　out　on　white　tables　the　insignia　of　an　early　and　elegant　lunch；　and　this　seemed　to　increase　a　satisfaction　that　already　touched　the　top　of　swagger。　　Muscari　had　an　eagle　nose　like　Dante；　his　hair　and　neckerchief　were　dark　and　flowing；　he　carried　a　black　cloak；　and　might　almost　have　carried　a　black　mask；　so　much　did　he　bear　with　him　a　sort　of　Venetian　melodrama。　　He　acted　as　if　a　troubadour　had　still　a　definite　social　office；　like　a　bishop。　　He　went　as　near　as　his　century　permitted　to　walking　the　world　literally　like　Don　Juan；　with　rapier　and　guitar。

　　　　　For　he　never　travelled　without　a　case　of　swords；　with　which　he　had　fought　many　brilliant　duels；　or　without　a　corresponding　case　for　his　mandolin；　with　which　he　had　actually　serenaded　Miss　Ethel　Harrogate；　the　highly　conventional　daughter　of　a　Yorkshire　banker　on　a　holiday。　　Yet　he　was　neither　a　charlatan　nor　a　child；　but　a　hot；　logical　Latin　who　liked　a　certain　thing　and　was　it。　　His　poetry　was　as　straightforward　as　anyone　else's　prose。　　He　desired　fame　or　wine　or　the　beauty　of　women　with　a　torrid　directness　inconceivable　among　the　cloudy　ideals　or　cloudy　compromises　of　the　north；　to　vaguer　races　his　intensity　smelt　of　danger　or　even　crime。　　Like　fire　or　the　sea；　he　was　too　simple　to　be　trusted。

　　　　　The　banker　and　his　beautiful　English　daughter　were　staying　at　the　hotel　attached　to　Muscari's　restaurant；　that　was　why　it　was　his　favourite　restaurant。　　A　glance　flashed　around　the　room　told　him　at　once；　however；　that　the　English　party　had　not　descended。　　The　restaurant　was　glittering；　but　still　comparatively　empty。　　Two　priests　were　talking　at　a　table　in　a　corner；　but　Muscari　（an　ardent　Catholic）　took　no　more　notice　of　them　than　of　a　couple　of　crows。　　But　from　a　yet　farther　seat；　partly　concealed　behind　a　dwarf　tree　golden　with　oranges；　there　rose　and　advanced　towards　the　poet　a　person　whose　costume　was　the　most　aggressively　opposite　to　his　own。

　　　　　This　figure　was　clad　in　tweeds　of　a　piebald　check；　with　a　pink　tie；　a　sharp　collar　and　protuberant　yellow　boots。　　He　contrived；　in　the　true　tradition　of　'Arry　at　Margate；　to　look　at　once　startling　and　commonplace。　　But　as　the　Cockney　apparition　drew　nearer；　Muscari　was　astounded　to　observe　that　the　head　was　distinctly　different　from　the　body。　　It　was　an　Italian　head：　fuzzy；　swarthy　and　very　vivacious；　that　rose　abruptly　out　of　the　standing　collar　like　cardboard　and　the　comic　pink　tie。　　In　fact　it　was　a　head　he　knew。　　He　recognized　it；　above　all　the　dire　erection　of　English　holiday　array；　as　the　face　of　an　old　but　forgotten　friend　name　Ezza。　　This　youth　had　been　a　prodigy　at　college；　and　European　fame　was　promised　him　when　he　was　barely　fifteen；　but　when　he　appeared　in　the　world　he　failed；　first　publicly　as　a　dramatist　and　a　demagogue；　and　then　privately　for　years　on　end　as　an　actor；　a　traveller；　a　commission　agent　or　a　journalist。　　Muscari　had　known　him　last　behind　the　footlights；　he　was　but　too　well　attuned　to　the　excitements　of　that　profession；　and　it　was　believed　that　some　moral　calamity　had　swallowed　him　up。

　　　　　〃Ezza！〃　cried　the　poet；　rising　and　shaking　hands　in　a　pleasant　astonishment。　　〃Well