With all due respect, he revealed to us truths stranger than fiction. Flambeau, once France's most famous criminal, later became Britain's most secretive private eye, long since retired.Some people say that his criminal career made him have too many worries, which affected his detective career.In any case, after some twists and turns, he finally found a satisfactory place to stay, which is a castle in Spain.Although the castle is small, it is strong; on the brown mountainside, there is a large black and purple vineyard and a green vegetable garden.For Flambeau, in spite of all his adventures, managed his retirement with vigor, a quality that many Latins possess and which (for example) many Americans lack.This spirit is reflected in many hotel owners, whose only wish is to be an ordinary farmer.This spirit is also reflected in the many shopkeepers in the French provinces who, when they are on the verge of becoming hated millionaires enough to buy a whole street of shops, suddenly quit and retreat, just wanting to enjoy a quiet and comfortable family life. , nothing to play dominoes.Flambeau fell inadvertently in love with a Spanish woman, married, had children, and raised a large family on a Spanish estate.Since then, he has shown no signs of wanting to get out of this life and travel again.But on one particular morning his family found him restless and excited; he ran ahead of the boys and down the long hill to meet a visitor passing through the valley; It's just a black spot in the distance.

The spot grew in size, but did not change much in shape; for it was still round and black in general.The black cloak of the clergy is no stranger to the inhabitants of these hills; but this one, though also a clergyman's attire, is plain and lively compared with the priest's or priest's cassock, Indicates that the wearer is from the island nation in the northwest, as if he is clearly marked with the Clapham Junction southwest of London.The person who came was holding a stubby umbrella, the handle looked like a lump of wood.Flambeau was almost moved to tears at the sight of this familiar image; for the umbrella had appeared in an adventure shared by the two long ago.For it was an English friend of the Frenchman who came.After long anticipation and delays, Father Brown came here to visit him.They corresponded continuously, but had not seen each other for many years.

Father Brown quickly integrated into this big family. This family was unusually prosperous, which made him feel like he had entered a society or a community.In Spain, children are the center of family life, and things related to them are very important, so the priest was first introduced to three large wooden statues painted and gilded, they are the "three kings", and they will be given to the children at Christmas. for presents.The family also took the priest with them and saw the dogs, cats and livestock on the farm one by one.Coincidentally, during this period the priest was also introduced to a neighbor who, like the priest, brought exotic costumes and customs to the valley.

On the third night of the priest's stay here, he saw an imposing stranger visiting the small castle to greet the Spaniard. His bowing gesture was something no Spanish nobleman could learn.He was a tall, thin, gray-haired, handsome gentleman, with well-kept hands and shiny cuffs and cuff-links.Unlike the long-sleeved, manicured manicures of British cartoons, his long face was far from languid, but alert and eager.There was an innocence and intense curiosity in his eyes, which is not often seen in a grizzled man.This alone may be enough to identify his nationality, not to mention that his exquisite voice is also nasal, and he often assumes that a large number of European objects around him are antiques.The man was none other than Mr. Grandison Chase of Boston, an American traveler who, on a hiatus from his American travels, took the adjoining mansion; The castle is located on a similar hillside.He loved the old castle and treated his friendly neighbor like a local relic.Because, as I said before, Flambeau does seem to be here to put down roots and enjoy retirement.He may have planned to live long years with his vine and fig tree.He had adopted his real last name, Duroch; for Torch was but a title on the battlefield, as a man who challenges society always has a name.He loved his wife and children dearly; he never went far except for the occasional hunt.In the world-traveling American's eyes, Flambeau's life was sunny, dignified, and luxurious in moderation.Discerning Americans are well aware of and appreciate the frenzy of the people around the Mediterranean to pursue this kind of life, and feel that Flambeau is simply the embodiment of this frenzy.He is from the west, and has always been at home everywhere, without a fixed place, but now he is like a rolling stone rolling into the moss-covered rock wall, happily taking the time to take a nap, and enjoying the thick historical heritage condensed on the southern peninsula.However, Mr. Chase had heard of Father Brown before, and when he saw the real face, his tone of speech changed slightly, as if he were treating a famous person.His inquisitive nature immediately came alive, and his questions were tactful and aggressive.If the conversation with Father Brown could be compared to pulling out a tooth, he was an American dentist who tried his best to extract it with the most skilful technique, so that the other person did not feel the slightest pain.

They sat in the semi-outdoor courtyard of this house, which is often the layout of the entrance of Spanish houses.At this time, the sky was gradually dimming; because the air in the mountains was filled with cold immediately after sunset, a small stove was placed on the stone floor to keep out the cold. Projects a red pattern.Not a ray of light fell down the wall beside them, though, a huge, bare brown brick wall that rose up against the dark blue night sky.In the gloom, Flambeau's tall, broad-shouldered body and beard cut like a saber could be vaguely seen. He was busy running back and forth, drawing dark wine from a wooden barrel and distributing it to the crowd.Against the huge figure of Flambeau, the priest appeared to be a small mass, as if curled up by the fire, while the American guest leaned gracefully forward with his elbows on his knees, lean and delicate. His face was completely illuminated by the fire, and his eyes radiated curiosity and wisdom.

"You will believe, sir," said he, "that in our opinion your achievement in the 'Moonlight Murders' is one of the greatest achievements recorded in the annals of detective science." Father Brown muttered to himself, sounding like he was complaining. "We are familiar with the so-called achievements of Dupin and others," the stranger went on firmly. "Lecoq, Sherlock Holmes and Nicholas Carter are also deeply rooted in the hearts of the people. But we found that your method of solving cases In many respects, you are distinctly different from these people, whether they are fictional or real. Some people guess, sir, that maybe you are not different from them in any way, but that you have no rules and no rules to follow. "

Father Brown was silent; then he trembled, as if he had dozed by the fire, and said, "Excuse me. Yes... there is no way... I'm afraid it can be counted as inadvertent." "I should say methodical scientific method," the questioner went on. "Poe wrote several short essays in the form of dialogues, speaking of Dupin's method, which was concerned with delicate logical relations. Dr. Watson heard a detailed explanation of Holmes' method, which focused on observation. The details of specific things. But no one has ever given any comprehensive reading of your methods, Father Brown, and I hear that you have declined an invitation to give a series of lectures on this subject in America."

"Yes," said the priest, frowning, staring at the stove, "I refuse." "Your refusal has sparked a great deal of interesting discussion," said Chase. "I can say that in our place there are people who say that your science cannot be explained because it is beyond the bounds of natural science. They say your secret It is supernatural in nature and can only be felt but not expressed.” "What is it?" asked Father Brown sharply. "Oh, kind of magical," Chase replied. "I can tell you that the murders of Gallup, Stan, old man Merton, and now Judge Gwynn's murder, plus the double murder by Dalmon, who is a celebrity in America, all of these It created a social uproar. You were there every time, right in the middle of the story, telling everyone how the murder happened without saying a word about how you knew about it. So some people started imagining that you had The ability to see foretelling. Carlotta Bronson gave a lecture on thought-forms, citing cases you worked on. The Clairvoyant Sisterhood in Indianapolis—”

Father Brown was still staring at the fire, and then said aloud, as if no one was there, "Oh, I say. How can this be done." "I really don't know what to do," Mr. Chase said humorously. "It's not easy to keep the Clairvoyant Sisterhood from talking nonsense. The only way I can think of to stop it is for you to tell us your secret." Father Brown snorted, rested his head on his hands, and stood there for a moment, as if he was in a turmoil.Then he raised his head and said dully: "Very well. I must tell the secret." The priest looked melancholy, rolled his eyes, and scanned the dark surroundings. The red light from the small stove turned to the old, bare wall. Above the wall, the stars in the south gradually became brighter.

"The secret is," he said, and then stopped, as if he couldn't go on.Then he spoke again: "You know, I killed them all." "What?" Chase's weak voice broke the silence. "You know, I killed them with my own hands," the priest explained patiently. "So of course I know how to kill it." Grandison Chase slowly stretched his stalwart body, as if a person had been propelled to the ceiling by a slow-motion explosive force.He looked down at the priest, throwing his question again. "I plan every crime carefully," went on Father Brown, "I picture exactly how it will be done, and the manner, or state of mind, of a man in order to do it without fail. When I am sure of my feelings When it is exactly the same as the murderer, I will naturally know who he is."

Chase breathed a sigh of relief. "You scare the hell out of me," he said. "For a moment I really thought you were the murderer. At that moment, I seemed to see that every newspaper in the United States was competing to publish such a report: "Holy Detective Exposed as a Killer: 100 Crimes of Father Brown." Oh, of course , it's just a metaphor, it's just that you're trying to reconstruct the mind of the criminal—" Father Brown thumped the fire with the short pipe he was about to fill, his face contorted with anger which was rare for him. "No! No! No!" said the priest, almost exasperated. "I'm not speaking metaphorically. It's the language one uses when trying to get to the bottom of things... What's the use of language...? If you're talking about pure Moral truth, but people always think that it is just a mere metaphor. A big living man on two legs once said to me: "I only believe in the Holy Spirit in a spiritual sense." Naturally, I asked: "What do you still do?" In what other sense can you believe it?' So he took me to mean that he didn't have to believe in anything other than evolution, or friendship in an ethical sense, or some bullshit... I mean, I actually saw it with my own eyes I killed myself, my true self, and committed the murder. I didn't actually kill those people by physical means, but that's not the point. A brick or some small device can be a physical means, really. Kill them. I will say that I thought and thought about how a man could get there to kill, until I felt that I had really gotten to that point, that I was in all respects identical with a murderer, The only difference is that I didn't take the final step and actually put it into action. This is what a friend of mine suggested to me as a religious practice. I believe he learned it from Pope Leo XIII Come, the Pope has always been my hero." "I'm afraid," said the American, still full of doubts in his tone, staring at the priest as if observing a wild animal, "you have to say a few more words, I really don't understand what you mean. Detective science—" Father Brown snapped his fingers, his resentment evident. "That's right," he exclaimed, "that's where our differences lie. Science is great when you can get hold of it; it's one of the greatest words in the world in its own right. But when people use the word science these days, when they say detectives are a science, and criminology is a science, what do they mean, nine out of ten? What they mean? Study it as a giant insect: they call it an unbiased, dispassionate, objective perspective, and I say it's a lifeless, dehumanized perspective. They mean standing at a distance from the person position, as if he were a distant prehistoric monster; examine the shape of the 'criminal's skull' as if it were an abnormal growth, like the horns on the nose of a rhinoceros. When a scientist speaks of a type, he is never referring to himself , but his neighbour, probably a poor neighbour. I do not deny that a sober, objective perspective is sometimes beneficial, although in a sense it runs counter to science. It is so far removed from knowledge that it is in fact beneficial to what we already have. It is to treat a friend as a stranger, to pretend to veil the familiar with a veil of remoteness and mystery. It is like saying that someone has a big nose between his eyes, or that every twenty-four A coma every hour. Well, what you call a 'secret' is the exact opposite of that. I'm not going to try to distance myself from this man. I'm going to try to get inside the murderer's heart...and go further, don't you Don't get it? I go deep inside a man. I always go deep inside a man and swing his arms and legs. I'll wait till I'm clear that I've become one with a criminal , think what he thinks, wrestle with his passion; until I can fully empathize with the hatred surging in his heart; until I can see the world through his leering, blood-red eyes, The short clear straight road to the pool of blood is in sight. Until I really am a murderer." "Oh," added Mr. Chase, looking at the priest with a stern expression, "that's what you call religious practice." "Yes," said the priest, "that's what I call religious practice." After a brief silence, he continued: "This religious practice is so real that I'd rather never bring it up. It's just that I can't let you just go off and tell your fellow citizens that my body has something to do with the 'way of thinking' the secret spell of the world, right? I didn't express it very well, but it's true. No one can really be good until he knows how bad he is or how bad he can be; until he sees what he is How much right has he to be so snobbish, so sarcastic, and talk of 'criminals' as if they were ape-men in the woods thousands of miles away; till he gets rid of these filthy self-deceptions that exalt himself and demean others; till he squeezes himself out The last sliver of hypocrisy in the soul; until the only hope remaining in his mind is: to catch a criminal one way or another, and leave him in peace and health." Flambeau stepped forward, poured out a large glass of Spanish wine, which he had already filled before another guest, and set it before his friend.Then he spoke for the first time: "I believe Father Brown has a new batch of wonderful stories. We talked about it the other day. He's been dealing with some queer people since we last met." "Yes; I've heard some of it, but I don't know what the priest did in it," said Chase, raising his glass thoughtfully. "Can you give some examples, I think... I mean, is that the same kind of introspective way you've been dealing with the latest batch of cases?" Father Brown also raised his glass, and the red wine was illuminated by the blazing fire like the bright red glass in a martyr's window.The red flame seemed to capture his eyes, drawing his gaze deeply, as if the wine glass held the red sea of ​​blood of all human beings, and his soul dived into it, dipping deeper and deeper into the black humility And in the inverted imagination, keep sliding down, through the monsters that lie dormant at the bottom, sinking into the oldest silt.In that goblet, as through a red mirror, the priest sees many things: his own recent deeds swimming in dark red shadows; Symbols dance; all the stories he wants to tell here flash across.At this moment, the sparkling red wine was like a huge sunset, sprinkled on the dark red sandy beach, and there stood several dim figures; one fell down, and the other was running towards him.Then the setting sun seemed to break into fragments: here were red lanterns hanging high above the trees in the garden, swaying and swinging, and there was a pool of clear water reflecting red light; and then all the colors seemed to converge into a huge, crystal-clear red rose , this gem is like a round of red sun shining brightly on the whole world, except for that dim figure, who is wearing a high headdress like a priest in ancient times; then everything gradually dissipates, leaving only one A tuft of flaming beard fluttered in the wind over the desolate, gray moor.At the instigation of the American, all these emerged in his memory, gradually forming anecdotes and debates, which will be reproduced one by one in subsequent stories, but from the perspective of others and the state of mind of others. "Yes," said the priest, slowly lifting the glass to his lips, "I remember very clearly—"