The Complete Father Brown Mysteries [Annotated, With Introduction, Rare Additional Material] (32 page)

“
It’s
like Kew Gardens on Beachy Head,” said Ethel.

“
It
is our secret,” answered he, “the secret of the volcano; that is also the secret
of the revolution — that a thing can be violent and yet fruitful.”

“
You
are rather violent yourself,” and she smiled at him.

“
And
yet rather fruitless,” he admitted; “if I die tonight I die unmarried and a fool.”

“
It
is not my fault if you have come,” she said after a difficult silence.

“
It
is never your fault,” answered Muscari; “it was not your fault that Troy fell.”

As
they spoke they came under overwhelming cliffs that spread almost like wings above
a corner of peculiar peril. Shocked by the big shadow on the narrow ledge, the
horses stirred doubtfully. The driver leapt to the earth to hold their heads,
and they became ungovernable. One horse reared up to his full height — the
titanic and terrifying height of a horse when he becomes a biped. It was just
enough to alter the equilibrium; the whole coach heeled over like a ship and
crashed through the fringe of bushes over the cliff. Muscari threw an arm round
Ethel, who clung to him, and shouted aloud. It was for such moments that he
lived.

At
the moment when the gorgeous mountain walls went round the poet’s head like a purple
windmill a thing happened which was superficially even more startling. The
elderly and lethargic banker sprang erect in the coach and leapt over the precipice
before the tilted vehicle could take him there. In the first flash it looked as
wild as suicide; but in the second it was as sensible as a safe investment. The
Yorkshireman had evidently more promptitude, as well as more sagacity, than
Muscari had given him credit for; for he landed in a lap of land which might
have been specially padded with turf and clover to receive him. As it happened,
indeed, the whole company were equally lucky, if less dignified in their form
of ejection. Immediately under this abrupt turn of the road was a grassy and
flowery hollow like a sunken meadow; a sort of green velvet pocket in the long,
green, trailing garments of the hills. Into this they were all tipped or tumbled
with little damage, save that their smallest baggage and even the contents of
their pockets were scattered in the grass around them. The wrecked coach still
hung above, entangled in the tough hedge, and the horses plunged painfully down
the slope. The first to sit up was the little priest, who scratched his head
with a face of foolish wonder. Frank Harrogate heard him say to himself: “Now
why on earth have we fallen just here?”

He
blinked at the litter around him, and recovered his own very clumsy umbrella. Beyond
it lay the broad sombrero fallen from the head of Muscari, and beside it a
sealed business letter which, after a glance at the address, he returned to the
elder Harrogate. On the other side of him the grass partly hid Miss Ethel’s sunshade,
and just beyond it lay a curious little glass bottle hardly two inches long.
The priest picked it up; in a quick, unobtrusive manner he uncorked and sniffed
it, and his heavy face turned the colour of clay.

“
Heaven
deliver us!” he muttered; “it can’t be hers! Has her sorrow come on her already?”
He slipped it into his own waistcoat pocket. “I think I’m justified,” he said,
“till I know a little more.”

He
gazed painfully at the girl, at that moment being raised out of the flowers by Muscari,
who was saying: “We have fallen into heaven; it is a sign. Mortals climb up and
they fall down; but it is only gods and goddesses who can fall upwards.”

And
indeed she rose out of the sea of colours so beautiful and happy a vision that the
priest felt his suspicion shaken and shifted. “After all,” he thought, “perhaps
the poison isn’t hers; perhaps it’s one of Muscari’s melodramatic tricks.”

Muscari
set the lady lightly on her feet, made her an absurdly theatrical bow, and then,
drawing his cutlass, hacked hard at the taut reins of the horses, so that they
scrambled to their feet and stood in the grass trembling. When he had done so,
a most remarkable thing occurred. A very quiet man, very poorly dressed and extremely
sunburnt, came out of the bushes and took hold of the horses’ heads. He had a
queer-shaped knife, very broad and crooked, buckled on his belt; there was
nothing else remarkable about him, except his sudden and silent appearance. The
poet asked him who he was, and he did not answer.

Looking
around him at the confused and startled group in the hollow, Muscari then perceived
that another tanned and tattered man, with a short gun under his arm, was
looking at them from the ledge just below, leaning his elbows on the edge of
the turf. Then he looked up at the road from which they had fallen and saw, looking
down on them, the muzzles of four other carbines and four other brown faces
with bright but quite motionless eyes.

“
The
brigands!” cried Muscari, with a kind of monstrous gaiety. “This was a trap. Ezza,
if you will oblige me by shooting the coachman first, we can cut our way out
yet. There are only six of them.”

“
The
coachman,” said Ezza, who was standing grimly with his hands in his pockets, “happens
to be a servant of Mr Harrogate’s.”

“
Then
shoot him all the more,” cried the poet impatiently; “he was bribed to upset his
master. Then put the lady in the middle, and we will break the line up there —
with a rush.”

And,
wading in wild grass and flowers, he advanced fearlessly on the four carbines; but
finding that no one followed except young Harrogate, he turned, brandishing his
cutlass to wave the others on. He beheld the courier still standing slightly astride
in the centre of the grassy ring, his hands in his pockets; and his lean,
ironical Italian face seemed to grow longer and longer in the evening light.

“
You
thought, Muscari, I was the failure among our schoolfellows,” he said, “and you
thought you were the success. But I have succeeded more than you and fill a bigger
place in history. I have been acting epics while you have been writing them.”

“
Come
on, I tell you!” thundered Muscari from above. “Will you stand there talking nonsense
about yourself with a woman to save and three strong men to help you? What do
you call yourself?”

“
I
call myself Montano,” cried the strange courier in a voice equally loud and full.
“I am the King of Thieves, and I welcome you all to my summer palace.”

And
even as he spoke five more silent men with weapons ready came out of the bushes,
and looked towards him for their orders. One of them held a large paper in his
hand.

“
This
pretty little nest where we are all picnicking,” went on the courier-brigand, with
the same easy yet sinister smile, “is, together with some caves underneath it,
known by the name of the Paradise of Thieves. It is my principal stronghold on
these hills; for (as you have doubtless noticed) the eyrie is invisible both from
the road above and from the valley below. It is something better than impregnable;
it is unnoticeable. Here I mostly live, and here I shall certainly die, if the
gendarmes ever track me here. I am not the kind of criminal that ‘reserves his
defence,’ but the better kind that reserves his last bullet.”

All
were staring at him thunderstruck and still, except Father Brown, who heaved a huge
sigh as of relief and fingered the little phial in his pocket. “Thank God!” he
muttered; “that’s much more probable. The poison belongs to this robber-chief, of
course. He carries it so that he may never be captured, like Cato.”

The
King of Thieves was, however, continuing his address with the same kind of dangerous
politeness. “It only remains for me,” he said, “to explain to my guests the
social conditions upon which I have the pleasure of entertaining them. I need
not expound the quaint old ritual of ransom, which it is incumbent upon me to
keep up; and even this only applies to a part of the company. The Reverend
Father Brown and the celebrated Signor Muscari I shall release tomorrow at dawn
and escort to my outposts. Poets and priests, if you will pardon my simplicity
of speech, never have any money. And so (since it is impossible to get anything
out of them), let us, seize the opportunity to show our admiration for classic
literature and our reverence for Holy Church.”

He
paused with an unpleasing smile; and Father Brown blinked repeatedly at him, and
seemed suddenly to be listening with great attention. The brigand captain took
the large paper from the attendant brigand and, glancing over it, continued:
“My other intentions are clearly set forth in this public document, which I
will hand round in a moment; and which after that will be posted on a tree by
every village in the valley, and every cross-road in the hills. I will not
weary you with the verbalism, since you will be able to check it; the substance
of my proclamation is this: I announce first that I have captured the English
millionaire, the colossus of finance, Mr Samuel Harrogate. I next announce that
I have found on his person notes and bonds for two thousand pounds, which he
has given up to me. Now since it would be really immoral to announce such a
thing to a credulous public if it had not occurred, I suggest it should occur
without further delay. I suggest that Mr Harrogate senior should now give me
the two thousand pounds in his pocket.”

The
banker looked at him under lowering brows, red-faced and sulky, but seemingly cowed.
That leap from the failing carriage seemed to have used up his last virility.
He had held back in a hang-dog style when his son and Muscari had made a bold
movement to break out of the brigand trap. And now his red and trembling hand
went reluctantly to his breast-pocket, and passed a bundle of papers and
envelopes to the brigand.

“
Excellent!”
cried that outlaw gaily; “so far we are all cosy. I resume the points of my proclamation,
so soon to be published to all Italy. The third item is that of ransom. I am
asking from the friends of the Harrogate family a ransom of three thousand
pounds, which I am sure is almost insulting to that family in its moderate estimate
of their importance. Who would not pay triple this sum for another day’s
association with such a domestic circle? I will not conceal from you that the
document ends with certain legal phrases about the unpleasant things that may
happen if the money is not paid; but meanwhile, ladies and gentlemen, let me
assure you that I am comfortably off here for accommodation, wine and cigars,
and bid you for the present a sportsman-like welcome to the luxuries of the
Paradise of Thieves.”

All
the time that he had been speaking, the dubious-looking men with carbines and dirty
slouch hats had been gathering silently in such preponderating numbers that
even Muscari was compelled to recognize his sally with the sword as hopeless.
He glanced around him; but the girl had already gone over to soothe and comfort
her father, for her natural affection for his person was as strong or stronger
than her somewhat snobbish pride in his success. Muscari, with the illogicality
of a lover, admired this filial devotion, and yet was irritated by it. He
slapped his sword back in the scabbard and went and flung himself somewhat
sulkily on one of the green banks. The priest sat down within a yard or two,
and Muscari turned his aquiline nose on him in an instantaneous irritation.

“
Well,”
said the poet tartly, “do people still think me too romantic? Are there, I wonder,
any brigands left in the mountains?”

“
There
may be,” said Father Brown agnostically.

“
What
do you mean?” asked the other sharply.

“
I
mean I am puzzled,” replied the priest. “I am puzzled about Ezza or Montano, or
whatever his name is. He seems to me much more inexplicable as a brigand even than
he was as a courier.”

“
But
in what way?” persisted his companion. “Santa Maria! I should have thought the brigand
was plain enough.”

“
I
find three curious difficulties,” said the priest in a quiet voice. “I should like
to have your opinion on them. First of all I must tell you I was lunching in
that restaurant at the seaside. As four of you left the room, you and Miss Harrogate
went ahead, talking and laughing; the banker and the courier came behind,
speaking sparely and rather low. But I could not help hearing Ezza say these
words — ‘Well, let her have a little fun; you know the blow may smash her any
minute.’ Mr Harrogate answered nothing; so the words must have had some meaning.
On the impulse of the moment I warned her brother that she might be in peril; I
said nothing of its nature, for I did not know. But if it meant this capture in
the hills, the thing is nonsense. Why should the brigand-courier warn his
patron, even by a hint, when it was his whole purpose to lure him into the
mountain-mousetrap? It could not have meant that. But if not, what is this disaster,
known both to courier and banker, which hangs over Miss Harrogate’s head?”

“
Disaster
to Miss Harrogate!” ejaculated the poet, sitting up with some ferocity. “Explain
yourself; go on.”

“
All
my riddles, however, revolve round our bandit chief,” resumed the priest reflectively.
“And here is the second of them. Why did he put so prominently in his demand
for ransom the fact that he had taken two thousand pounds from his victim on
the spot? It had no faintest tendency to evoke the ransom. Quite the other way,
in fact. Harrogate’s friends would be far likelier to fear for his fate if they
thought the thieves were poor and desperate. Yet the spoliation on the spot was
emphasized and even put first in the demand. Why should Ezza Montano want so
specially to tell all Europe that he had picked the pocket before he levied the
blackmail?”