The Complete Father Brown Mysteries [Annotated, With Introduction, Rare Additional Material] (12 page)

The
green branch on which the glittering figure swung, rustled as if in
astonishment; but the voice went on:

“
I
want you to give them back, Flambeau, and I want you to give up this life. There
is still youth and honour and humour in you; don’t fancy they will last in that
trade. Men may keep a sort of level of good, but no man has ever been able to
keep on one level of evil. That road goes down and down. The kind man drinks
and turns cruel; the frank man kills and lies about it. Many a man I’ve known
started like you to be an honest outlaw, a merry robber of the rich, and ended
stamped into slime. Maurice Blum started out as an anarchist of principle, a father
of the poor; he ended a greasy spy and tale-bearer that both sides used and
despised. Harry Burke started his free money movement sincerely enough; now
he’s sponging on a half-starved sister for endless brandies and sodas. Lord
Amber went into wild society in a sort of chivalry; now he’s paying blackmail
to the lowest vultures in London. Captain Barillon was the great
gentleman-apache before your time; he died in a madhouse, screaming with fear
of the “narks” and receivers that had betrayed him and hunted him down. I know
the woods look very free behind you, Flambeau; I know that in a flash you could
melt into them like a monkey. But some day you will be an old grey monkey,
Flambeau. You will sit up in your free forest cold at heart and close to death,
and the tree-tops will be very bare.”

Everything
continued still, as if the small man below held the other in the tree in some long
invisible leash; and he went on:

“
Your
downward steps have begun. You used to boast of doing nothing mean, but you are
doing something mean tonight. You are leaving suspicion on an honest boy with a
good deal against him already; you are separating him from the woman he loves and
who loves him. But you will do meaner things than that before you die.”

Three
flashing diamonds fell from the tree to the turf. The small man stooped to pick
them up, and when he looked up again the green cage of the tree was emptied of its
silver bird.

The
restoration of the gems (accidentally picked up by Father Brown, of all people)
ended the evening in uproarious triumph; and Sir Leopold, in his height of good
humour, even told the priest that though he himself had broader views, he could
respect those whose creed required them to be cloistered and ignorant of this world.

In
the cool blue twilight of two steep streets in Camden Town, the shop at the corner,
a confectioner’s, glowed like the butt of a cigar. One should rather say,
perhaps, like the butt of a firework, for the light was of many colours and
some complexity, broken up by many mirrors and dancing on many gilt and gaily-coloured
cakes and sweetmeats. Against this one fiery glass were glued the noses of many
gutter-snipes, for the chocolates were all wrapped in those red and gold and
green metallic colours which are almost better than chocolate itself; and the
huge white wedding-cake in the window was somehow at once remote and
satisfying, just as if the whole North Pole were good to eat. Such rainbow
provocations could naturally collect the youth of the neighbourhood up to the
ages of ten or twelve. But this corner was also attractive to youth at a later
stage; and a young man, not less than twenty-four, was staring into the same
shop window. To him, also, the shop was of fiery charm, but this attraction was
not wholly to be explained by chocolates; which, however, he was far from
despising.

He
was a tall, burly, red-haired young man, with a resolute face but a listless manner.
He carried under his arm a flat, grey portfolio of black-and-white sketches,
which he had sold with more or less success to publishers ever since his uncle
(who was an admiral) had disinherited him for Socialism, because of a lecture
which he had delivered against that economic theory. His name was John Turnbull
Angus.

Entering
at last, he walked through the confectioner’s shop to the back room, which was a
sort of pastry-cook restaurant, merely raising his hat to the young lady who was
serving there. She was a dark, elegant, alert girl in black, with a high colour
and very quick, dark eyes; and after the ordinary interval she followed him
into the inner room to take his order.

His
order was evidently a usual one. “I want, please,” he said with precision, “one
halfpenny bun and a small cup of black coffee.” An instant before the girl could
turn away he added, “Also, I want you to marry me.”

The
young lady of the shop stiffened suddenly and said, “Those are jokes I don’t allow.”

The
red-haired young man lifted grey eyes of an unexpected gravity.

“
Really
and truly,” he said, “it’s as serious — as serious as the halfpenny bun. It is expensive,
like the bun; one pays for it. It is indigestible, like the bun. It hurts.”

The
dark young lady had never taken her dark eyes off him, but seemed to be studying
him with almost tragic exactitude. At the end of her scrutiny she had something
like the shadow of a smile, and she sat down in a chair.

“
Don’t
you think,” observed Angus, absently, “that it’s rather cruel to eat these halfpenny
buns? They might grow up into penny buns. I shall give up these brutal sports
when we are married.”

The
dark young lady rose from her chair and walked to the window, evidently in a state
of strong but not unsympathetic cogitation. When at last she swung round again
with an air of resolution she was bewildered to observe that the young man was
carefully laying out on the table various objects from the shop-window. They
included a pyramid of highly coloured sweets, several plates of sandwiches, and
the two decanters containing that mysterious port and sherry which are peculiar
to pastry-cooks. In the middle of this neat arrangement he had carefully let
down the enormous load of white sugared cake which had been the huge ornament
of the window.

“
What
on earth are you doing?” she asked.

“
Duty,
my dear Laura,” he began.

“
Oh,
for the Lord’s sake, stop a minute,” she cried, “and don’t talk to me in that way.
I mean, what is all that?”

“
A
ceremonial meal, Miss Hope.”

“
And
what is that?” she asked impatiently, pointing to the mountain of sugar.

“
The
wedding-cake, Mrs. Angus,” he said.

The
girl marched to that article, removed it with some clatter, and put it back in the
shop window; she then returned, and, putting her elegant elbows on the table,
regarded the young man not unfavourably but with considerable exasperation.

“
You
don’t give me any time to think,” she said.

“
I’m
not such a fool,” he answered; “that’s my Christian humility.”

She
was still looking at him; but she had grown considerably graver behind the smile.

“
Mr.
Angus,” she said steadily, “before there is a minute more of this nonsense I must
tell you something about myself as shortly as I can.’”

“
Delighted,”
replied Angus gravely. “You might tell me something about myself, too, while you
are about it.”

“
Oh,
do hold your tongue and listen,” she said. “It’s nothing that I’m ashamed of, and
it isn’t even anything that I’m specially sorry about. But what would you say
if there were something that is no business of mine and yet is my nightmare?”

“
In
that case,” said the man seriously, “I should suggest that you bring back the cake.”

“
Well,
you must listen to the story first,” said Laura, persistently. “To begin with, I
must tell you that my father owned the inn called the ‘Red Fish’ at Ludbury, and
I used to serve people in the bar.”

“
I
have often wondered,” he said, “why there was a kind of a Christian air about this
one confectioner’s shop.”

“
Ludbury
is a sleepy, grassy little hole in the Eastern Counties, and the only kind of people
who ever came to the ‘Red Fish’ were occasional commercial travellers, and for
the rest, the most awful people you can see, only you’ve never seen them. I
mean little, loungy men, who had just enough to live on and had nothing to do
but lean about in bar-rooms and bet on horses, in bad clothes that were just
too good for them. Even these wretched young rotters were not very common at
our house; but there were two of them that were a lot too common — common in every
sort of way. They both lived on money of their own, and were wearisomely idle
and over-dressed. But yet I was a bit sorry for them, because I half believe
they slunk into our little empty bar because each of them had a slight deformity;
the sort of thing that some yokels laugh at. It wasn’t exactly a deformity
either; it was more an oddity. One of them was a surprisingly small man,
something like a dwarf, or at least like a jockey. He was not at all jockeyish
to look at, though; he had a round black head and a well-trimmed black beard,
bright eyes like a bird’s; he jingled money in his pockets; he jangled a great
gold watch chain; and he never turned up except dressed just too much like a
gentleman to be one. He was no fool though, though a futile idler; he was
curiously clever at all kinds of things that couldn’t be the slightest use; a
sort of impromptu conjuring; making fifteen matches set fire to each other like
a regular firework; or cutting a banana or some such thing into a dancing doll.
His name was Isidore Smythe; and I can see him still, with his little dark
face, just coming up to the counter, making a jumping kangaroo out of five
cigars.

“
The
other fellow was more silent and more ordinary; but somehow he alarmed me much more
than poor little Smythe. He was very tall and slight, and light-haired; his
nose had a high bridge, and he might almost have been handsome in a spectral
sort of way; but he had one of the most appalling squints I have ever seen or
heard of. When he looked straight at you, you didn’t know where you were
yourself, let alone what he was looking at. I fancy this sort of disfigurement
embittered the poor chap a little; for while Smythe was ready to show off his
monkey tricks anywhere, James Welkin (that was the squinting man’s name) never
did anything except soak in our bar parlour, and go for great walks by himself
in the flat, grey country all round. All the same, I think Smythe, too, was a
little sensitive about being so small, though he carried it off more smartly.
And so it was that I was really puzzled, as well as startled, and very sorry,
when they both offered to marry me in the same week.

“
Well,
I did what I’ve since thought was perhaps a silly thing. But, after all, these freaks
were my friends in a way; and I had a horror of their thinking I refused them
for the real reason, which was that they were so impossibly ugly. So I made up
some gas of another sort, about never meaning to marry anyone who hadn’t carved
his way in the world. I said it was a point of principle with me not to live on
money that was just inherited like theirs. Two days after I had talked in this
well-meaning sort of way, the whole trouble began. The first thing I heard was
that both of them had gone off to seek their fortunes, as if they were in some
silly fairy tale.

“
Well,
I’ve never seen either of them from that day to this. But I’ve had two letters from
the little man called Smythe, and really they were rather exciting.”

“
Ever
heard of the other man?” asked Angus.

“
No,
he never wrote,” said the girl, after an instant’s hesitation. “Smythe’s first letter
was simply to say that he had started out walking with Welkin to London; but
Welkin was such a good walker that the little man dropped out of it, and took a
rest by the roadside. He happened to be picked up by some travelling show, and,
partly because he was nearly a dwarf, and partly because he was really a clever
little wretch, he got on quite well in the show business, and was soon sent up
to the Aquarium, to do some tricks that I forget. That was his first letter.
His second was much more of a startler, and I only got it last week.”

The
man called Angus emptied his coffee-cup and regarded her with mild and patient eyes.
Her own mouth took a slight twist of laughter as she resumed, “I suppose you’ve
seen on the hoardings all about this ‘Smythe’s Silent Service’? Or you must be
the only person that hasn’t. Oh, I don’t know much about it, it’s some clockwork
invention for doing all the housework by machinery. You know the sort of thing:
‘Press a Button — A Butler who Never Drinks.’ ‘Turn a Handle — Ten Housemaids
who Never Flirt.’ You must have seen the advertisements. Well, whatever these
machines are, they are making pots of money; and they are making it all for
that little imp whom I knew down in Ludbury. I can’t help feeling pleased the
poor little chap has fallen on his feet; but the plain fact is, I’m in terror
of his turning up any minute and telling me he’s carved his way in the world —
as he certainly has.”

“
And
the other man?” repeated Angus with a sort of obstinate quietude.

Laura
Hope got to her feet suddenly. “My friend,” she said, “I think you are a witch.
Yes, you are quite right. I have not seen a line of the other man’s writing; and
I have no more notion than the dead of what or where he is. But it is of him
that I am frightened. It is he who is all about my path. It is he who has half
driven me mad. Indeed, I think he has driven me mad; for I have felt him where
he could not have been, and I have heard his voice when he could not have spoken.”

“
Well,
my dear,” said the young man, cheerfully, “if he were Satan himself, he is done
for now you have told somebody. One goes mad all alone, old girl. But when was it
you fancied you felt and heard our squinting friend?”

“
I
heard James Welkin laugh as plainly as I hear you speak,” said the girl, steadily.
“There was nobody there, for I stood just outside the shop at the corner, and
could see down both streets at once. I had forgotten how he laughed, though his
laugh was as odd as his squint. I had not thought of him for nearly a year. But
it’s a solemn truth that a few seconds later the first letter came from his
rival.”

“
Did
you ever make the spectre speak or squeak, or anything?” asked Angus, with some
interest.

Laura
suddenly shuddered, and then said, with an unshaken voice, “Yes. Just when I had
finished reading the second letter from Isidore Smythe announcing his success. Just
then, I heard Welkin say, ‘He shan’t have you, though.’ It was quite plain, as
if he were in the room. It is awful, I think I must be mad.”

“
If
you really were mad,” said the young man, “you would think you must be sane. But
certainly there seems to me to be something a little rum about this unseen gentleman.
Two heads are better than one — I spare you allusions to any other organs and
really, if you would allow me, as a sturdy, practical man, to bring back the
wedding-cake out of the window —”

Even
as he spoke, there was a sort of steely shriek in the street outside, and a small
motor, driven at devilish speed, shot up to the door of the shop and stuck
there. In the same flash of time a small man in a shiny top hat stood stamping
in the outer room.

Angus,
who had hitherto maintained hilarious ease from motives of mental hygiene, revealed
the strain of his soul by striding abruptly out of the inner room and confronting
the new-comer. A glance at him was quite sufficient to confirm the savage
guesswork of a man in love. This very dapper but dwarfish figure, with the
spike of black beard carried insolently forward, the clever unrestful eyes, the
neat but very nervous fingers, could be none other than the man just described to
him: Isidore Smythe, who made dolls out of banana skins and match-boxes; Isidore
Smythe, who made millions out of undrinking butlers and unflirting housemaids
of metal. For a moment the two men, instinctively understanding each other’s
air of possession, looked at each other with that curious cold generosity which
is the soul of rivalry.