After he had listened for a minute and a half, he was gripped by a devilish doubt. Perhaps he had dragged the two English policemen to the wastes of a nocturnal heath on an errand no saner than seeking figs on its thistles. For the two priests were talking exactly like priests, piously, with learning and leisure, about the most aerial enigmas of theology. The little Essex priest spoke the more simply, with his round face turned to the strengthening stars; the other talked with his head bowed, as if he were not even worthy to look at them. But no more innocently clerical conversation could have been heard in any white Italian cloister or black Spanish cathedral.
The first he heard was the tail of one of Father Brown’s sentences, which ended: “… what they really meant in the Middle Ages by the heavens being incorruptible.”
The taller priest nodded his bowed head and said:
“Ah, yes, these modern infidels appeal to their reason; but who can look at those millions of worlds and not feel that there may well be wonderful universes above us where reason is utterly unreasonable?”
“No,” said the other priest; “reason is always reasonable, even in the last limbo, in the lost borderland of things. I know that people charge the Church with lowering reason, but it is just the other way. Alone on earth, the Church makes reason really supreme. Alone on earth, the Church affirms that God himself is bound by reason.”
The other priest raised his austere face to the spangled sky and said:
“Yet who knows if in that infinite universe—?”
“Only infinite physically,” said the little priest, turning sharply in his seat, “not infinite in the sense of escaping from the laws of truth.”
Valentin behind his tree was tearing his fingernails with silent fury. He seemed almost to hear the sniggers of the English detectives whom he had brought so far on a fantastic guess only to listen to the metaphysical gossip of two mild old parsons. In his impatience he lost the equally elaborate answer of the tall cleric, and when he listened again it was again Father Brown who was speaking:
“Reason and justice grip the remotest and the loneliest star. Look at those stars. Don’t they look as if they were single diamonds and sapphires? Well, you can imagine any mad botany or geology you please. Think of forests of adamant with leaves of brilliants. Think the moon is a blue moon, a single elephantine sapphire. But don’t fancy that all that frantic astronomy would make the smallest difference to the reason and justice of conduct. On plains of opal, under cliffs cut out of pearl, you would still find a notice-board, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’”
Valentin was just in the act of rising from his rigid and crouching attitude and creeping away as softly as might be, felled by the one great folly of his life. But something in the very silence of the tall priest made him stop until the latter spoke. When at last he did speak, he said simply, his head bowed and his hands on his knees:
“Well, I think that other worlds may perhaps rise higher than our reason. The mystery of heaven is unfathomable, and I for one can only bow my head.”
Then, with brow yet bent and without changing by the faintest shade his attitude or voice, he added:
“Just hand over that sapphire cross of yours, will you? We’re all alone here, and I could pull you to pieces like a straw doll.”
The utterly unaltered voice and attitude added a strange violence to that shocking change of speech. But the guarder of the relic only seemed to turn his head by the smallest section of the compass. He seemed still to have a somewhat foolish face turned to the stars. Perhaps he had not understood. Or, perhaps, he had understood and sat rigid with terror.
“Yes,” said the tall priest, in the same low voice and in the same still posture, “yes, I am Flambeau.”
Then, after a pause, he said:
“Come, will you give me that cross?”
“No,” said the other, and the monosyllable had an odd sound.
Flambeau suddenly flung off all his pontifical pretensions. The great robber leaned back in his seat and laughed low but long.
“No,” he cried, “you won’t give it me, you proud prelate. You won’t give it me, you little celibate simpleton. Shall I tell you why you won’t give it me? Because I’ve got it already in my own breast-pocket.”
The small man from Essex turned what seemed to be a dazed face in the dusk, and said, with the timid eagerness of “The Private Secretary”:
“Are—are you sure?”
Flambeau yelled with delight.
“Really, you’re as good as a three-act farce,” he cried. “Yes, you turnip, I am quite sure. I had the sense to make a duplicate of the right parcel, and now, my friend, you’ve got the duplicate and I’ve got the jewels. An old dodge, Father Brown—a very old dodge.”
“Yes,” said Father Brown, and passed his hand through his hair with the same strange vagueness of manner. “Yes, I’ve heard of it before.”
The colossus of crime leaned over to the little rustic priest with a sort of sudden interest.
“You have heard of it?” he asked. “Where have you heard of it?”
“Well, I mustn’t tell you his name, of course,” said the little man simply. “He was a penitent, you know. He had lived prosperously for about twenty years entirely on duplicate brown paper parcels. And so, you see, when I began to suspect you, I thought of this poor chap’s way of doing it at once.”
“Began to suspect me?” repeated the outlaw with increased intensity. “Did you really have the gumption to suspect me just because I brought you up to this bare part of the heath?”
“No, no,” said Brown with an air of apology. “You see, I suspected you when we first met. It’s that little bulge up the sleeve where you people have the spiked bracelet.”
“How in Tartarus,” cried Flambeau, “did you ever hear of the spiked bracelet?”
“Oh, one’s little flock, you know!” said Father Brown, arching his eyebrows rather blankly. “When I was a curate in Hartlepool, there were three of them with spiked bracelets. So, as I suspected you from the first, don’t you see, I made sure that the cross should go safe, anyhow. I’m afraid I watched you, you know. So at last I saw you change the parcels. Then, don’t you see, I changed them back again. And then I left the right one behind.”
“Left it behind?” repeated Flambeau, and for the first time there was another note in his voice beside his triumph.
“Well, it was like this,” said the little priest, speaking in the same unaffected way. “I went back to that sweet-shop and asked if I’d left a parcel, and gave them a particular address if it turned up. Well, I knew I hadn’t; but when I went away again I did. So, instead of running after me with that valuable parcel, they have sent it flying to a friend of mine in Westminster.” Then he added rather sadly: “I learnt that, too, from a poor fellow in Hartlepool. He used to do it with handbags he stole at railway stations, but he’s in a monastery now. Oh, one gets to know, you know,” he added, rubbing his head again with the same sort of desperate apology. “We can’t help being priests. People come and tell us these things.”
Flambeau tore a brown-paper parcel out of his inner pocket and rent it in pieces. There was nothing but paper and sticks of lead inside it. He sprang to his feet with a gigantic gesture, and cried:
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe a bumpkin like you could manage all that. I believe you’ve still got the stuff on you, and if you don’t give it up—why, we’re all alone, and I’ll take it by force!”
“No,” said Father Brown simply, and stood up also, “you won’t take it by force. First, because I really haven’t still got it. And, second, because we are not alone.”
Flambeau stopped in his stride forward.
“Behind that tree,” said Father Brown, pointing, “are two strong policemen and the greatest detective alive. How did they come here, do you ask? Why, I brought them, of course! How did I do it? Why, I’ll tell you if you like! Lord bless you, we have to know twenty such things when we work among the criminal classes! Well, I was
n’t sure you were a thief, and it would never do to make a scandal against one of our own clergy. So I just tested you to see if anything would make you show yourself. A man generally makes a small scene if he finds salt in his coffee; if he doesn’t, he has some reason for keeping quiet. I changed the salt and sugar, and you kept quiet. A man generally objects if his bill is three times too big. If he pays it, he has some motive for passing unnoticed. I altered your bill, and you paid it.”
The world seemed waiting for Flambeau to leap like a tiger. But he was held back as by a spell; he was stunned with the utmost curiosity.
“Well,” went on Father Brown, with lumbering lucidity, “as you wouldn’t leave any tracks for the police, of course somebody had to. At every place we went to, I took care to do something that would get us talked about for the rest of the day. I didn’t do much harm—a splashed wall, spilt apples, a broken window; but I saved the cross, as the cross will always be saved. It is at Westminster by now. I rather wonder you didn’t stop it with the Donkey’s Whistle.”
“With the what?” asked Flambeau.
“I’m glad you’ve never heard of it,” said the priest, making a face. “It’s a foul thing. I’m sure you’re too good a man for a Whistler. I couldn’t have countered it even with the Spots myself; I’m not strong enough in the legs.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked the other.
“Well, I did think you’d know the Spots,” said Father Brown, agreeably surprised. “Oh, you can’t have gone so very wrong yet!”
“How in blazes do you know all these horrors?” cried Flambeau.
The shadow of a smile crossed the round, simple face of his clerical opponent.
“Oh, by being a celibate simpleton, I suppose,” he said. “Has it never struck you that a man who does next to nothing but hear men’s real sins is not likely to be wholly unaware of human evil? But, as a matter of fact, another part of my trade, too, made me sure you weren’t a priest.”
“What?” asked the thief, almost gaping.
“You attacked reason,” said Father Brown. “It’s bad theology.”
And even as he turned away to collect his property, the three policemen came out from under the twilight trees. Flambeau was an artist and a sportsman. He stepped back and swept Valentin a great bow.
“Do not bow to me, mon ami,” said Valentin with silver clearness. “Let us both bow to our master.”
And they both stood an instant uncovered while the little Essex priest blinked about for his umbrella.
THE WORST NOEL, by Barb Goffman
Okay, Gwen. Get ready to fake it.
It was nearly my turn to share what I was thankful for. Then we’d eat some pie, Thanksgiving dinner would mercifully end, and I could escape for home.
But first I had to pay my annual homage to Mom, saying how thankful I am for my family. Every year I contemplate only mentioning my friends and work, but I always chicken out. Mom would make me pay if I didn’t smile and mention her.
My sister, Becca, finally stopped blathering about her husband and baby, and Mom slipped into the kitchen, clearly satisfied, as always, with Becca.
Becca’s husband, Joe, started sharing his thanks. I reached for another roll, slathered some butter on it, and swallowed it down in two bites. Joe finished talking. I steeled myself. My turn had come. I smiled and—
“Happy birthday to you,” Mom sang, emerging from the kitchen with a large pumpkin pie, a candle in the middle. Everyone joined in, Becca’s in-laws looking uncomfortable, while Mom set the pie before me.
“We would have wished you happy birthday earlier,” Joe said, glancing at his parents when the song ended. “But we thought your birthday was tomorrow.”
“Oh, it is,” Mom piped in. “But Becca and I will be busy shopping, so it only makes sense to celebrate Gwen’s birthday now.”
I wished I had a different family and blew out my candle.
“Pumpkin pie as birthday cake,” Joe said. “How unusual.”
He knew my preference for chocolate. As did Mom.
“Well, it is Thanksgiving. Besides”—Mom poked me with her elbow—“it’s not like Gwen needs any more cake.” She smiled as if she hadn’t just been incredibly rude to me. “Becca, would you please slice the pie? I’m going to get Gwen’s gift.”
A couple minutes later, as plates of pie made the rounds and I considered dropping mine, face down, on Mom’s Berber carpet, Mom handed me a gold-wrapped box. I opened the envelope first, and a small gift card fell out. I turned it over and cringed. Not a gift card. A membership card. For a gym.
This was a new low, even for Mom.
“Read the greeting card,” she said.
Lord save me. “To our darling daughter on her birthday,” I read aloud. Not that Mom or Dad had penned that sentiment. It came straight from Hallmark. At the bottom, Mom had written, “We got you this gym membership and a personal trainer for the next six months. Happy Birthday.”
Oh, yeah. There’s nothing like being reminded that you’re fat to make your birthday a humdinger!
“What a wonderful gift,” Becca said in that tone she’d used since we were kids—the one grown-ups always thought sounded sweet and sincere but I knew was chockfull of sarcasm.
“There’s more!” Mom said, pointing at the box, looking proud.
I shuddered to imagine what might be in it. I gingerly opened the gold wrapping paper, not because I cared about ripping it, but because I wanted to delay every second I could before the inevitable torture.
Paper off, the box’s lid caught my eye. Bloomingdale’s. Really? Excited, I lifted off the cover, pulled back the crinkly, white tissue paper, and … mentally kicked myself for thinking Mom might have gotten me something nice.
“Hold it up,” Mom said. “Let everyone see.”
I pulled out my gift. A red sweat suit. Size medium.
“You can use it at the gym! With the trainer!” she said.
I watched Becca try not to laugh while her in-laws and Joe sat there, mouths open.
“Thank you, Mom. Dad. How very … thoughtful.”
“Go try it on,” Mom said.
“Oh, no, not right now.”
“C’mon, Gwen,” Becca chimed in. “Don’t be shy. Let’s see how it looks.”
I glared at her. She knew damn well how it would look.
Mom gave me her don’t-embarrass-me frown. So I shuffled off to my old bedroom, sweat suit in hand. As an elementary school principal, I’m used to standing up to people and holding my own. But you wouldn’t know it seeing me around my family. While I took off my clothes, I wondered for the millionth time why Mom and Dad favored Becca so much. Growing up, they had always given her great presents. First the hottest toys, then trendy teenage clothes, and then expensive jewelry from Cartier in Boston. Oh, how she’d always loved to lord her gifts over me.
Especially since my presents always sucked. When I turned eight, Cabbage Patch dolls were all the rage. I got a Skipper doll. Mom wouldn’t even spring for Barbie. At fourteen, I begged for bohemian clothes from Annie Dakota, a funky store that used to be downtown. I got a science tutor instead. “A far better use of the money,” Mom had said, looking me up and down. “We can’t count on you finding a husband like Becca surely will, and I don’t want to have to support you for the rest of my life.” Becca had snickered while my few friends whom I’d invited over for cake gasped—they’d heard my stories about Mom, but seeing her in action still shocked them.
Given the history, I shouldn’t have been surprised by today’s events. And yet a tiny part of me hoped every year that things would be different. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I struggled to get the sweat suit on, tugging the snug pants over my hips and fighting to pull the top’s zipper over my bosom. When I finally finished and peered in the mirror, I cringed. The red sweat suit had a white collar and cuffs. I looked like a pregnant Santa Claus.
“What’s taking so long, Gwen?” Mom called from the hall. “If you
don’t come out right now, I’m just going to come in on my own.”
I opened the door, Mom sucked in her breath, and Becca burst out laughing.
“I’ll have to return it.” I gestured at the red nightmare. “It’s a bit tight.”
“Of course it’s tight.” Mom rolled her eyes. “How will you ever be encouraged to lose weight if you constantly wear fat clothes? That’s why I bought you a medium.”
Tears welled up in my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them flow.
Mom clapped her hands together. “That’s enough about you, Gwen. This is a holiday for the whole family, after all, and we have guests. Get dressed and come back and join everyone.”
“Wait.” Becca handed me another box. “This is from me and Joe. But you don’t have to model it now. I’m sure it’ll look great on you.”
Right. I closed the door and sank onto my old bed, the springs creaking. Sighing, I opened Becca’s gift. A royal blue sweater with horizontal white stripes. At least it was the right size, but stripes! It would look hideous on me. Of course it didn’t come as a surprise. Every year since we’d become adults, Becca had given me gifts that made me look bad. In return, every year I’d bought her gifts she wouldn’t like. Last year, a bargain-brand video camera. This year, a silver bracelet. Becca only wears gold.
The Mystery Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Mystery Stories Page 20
