Chapter 2 The Mirror of the Magistrate's House

James Bagshaw and Wilfred Underhill were good friends living in the suburbs, who liked to walk and chat at night, walking at will through the silent, lifeless, labyrinthine streets and alleys. middle.Bagshaw is a heavyset, dark-skinned, black moustache, upbeat professional detective; Underhill has a thin face, light hair and a sensitive look, an amateur detective .The detective's eloquence, the amateur's ear, and the readers of scientific legends are likely to be taken aback by this spectacle. “Our business,” says Bagshaw, “is the only one where people think people are always making mistakes. After all, people don’t write stories about a hairdresser who can’t cut hair and needs a client to help; or The kind of story about a taxi driver who can't drive and needs a passenger to teach him how to drive a cab. Nevertheless, I never deny that we often have a tendency to stick to a rut; or, in other words, to follow a rule. This situation is not in our favor. The mistake that writers of romances make is that they ignore even the advantage that obedience to a rule gives us."

"Of course," said Underhill, "Holmes will say that he obeys a rule of logic." "He may be right," replied another, "but I'm talking about a collective rule. It's like a staff in the army. We pool information." "Don't you think detective novels don't take that into account?" asked his friend. "Well, take any of Holmes' hypothetical cases, and Lestrade, the official detective. It can be said that Holmes was able to guess that the stranger who was about to cross the road was a foreigner simply because he He looked to his left, not his right, when checking for an approaching vehicle. I admit that Holmes might have guessed that. I am also quite sure that Lestrade would never have guessed in that way. But people miss It is a fact that the police, who cannot guess, probably knew the truth beforehand. Lestrade may have known it was a foreigner, simply because his police station kept an eye out for all foreigners; National. As a police officer, I’m glad the police know so much; because everyone wants to do their job. But as a citizen, I sometimes wonder if the police know too much.”

"You won't really say," cried Underhill suspiciously, "that you know all about every stranger who walks down a strange street. If a man walks out of that house over there, you Will you know everything about him?" "If it was the homeowner, I would have known," Bagshaw replied. "The man who rented that house was a man of letters, half-English and Romanian. He usually lives in Paris, but he came here for one of his plays. His name is Osric Orm, a modern poet. , I find his poems quite difficult to understand." "But I mean all the people in the street," argued his companion. "I was thinking, everything here is so strange, new, and indescribable, with those bare high walls, and every house is hidden in the depths of the big garden. It is impossible for you to know everyone."

"I know a few," Bagshaw replied. "This garden wall next to us is the property of Sir Humphrey Gwynn, Mr Justice of the Peace, as everyone calls him, the old judge who used to quarrel over war spies. The house next door belongs to A wealthy cigar merchant. He was from Spanish America, very dark, very Spanish-looking, but he had a very English name: Buller. The house further on—what did you hear Did it ring?" "I hear it," said Underhill, "but I can't make out what it's making." "I know what it is," replied the detective. "It was a revolver. It was fired twice, and then there was a cry for help. It came from the back garden of Mr. But a peaceful and law-abiding paradise."

He looked quickly up and down the street, and added: "The only gate to the back garden is on the other side, half a mile around. I wish the wall was lower, or I was lighter; but I'll have to try." "It's a little lower up ahead," said Underhill, "and there's a tree over there that should help." They hastened on, and came to a place where the top of the wall dropped so suddenly that it seemed to be half sunk in the ground; but they saw a garden tree jutting out from the dim There is a layer of golden halo on it.Bagshaw reached out to grab the crooked branch, and put one leg on the low wall; and before long they were standing knee-deep among the plants and flowers at the edge of the garden.

At night, the garden of Mr. Justice Gwynne of the Peace presents a strange and exquisite spectacle.It was a large garden, on the edge of an empty suburb, and was cast in the shadow of the tall, dark house, the last of the row of houses.It was really dark, and not only was it well shut by the shutters, but there was no light in it, at least on the side that looked down on the garden.But the garden in the shadows, which should have been pitch black, had bits and pieces of light, like fireworks lingering in flames, like a huge burning rocket crashing into the bushes.When they got closer, they found that it was the light from a few colored lights, like Aladdin's jeweled fruits dotted among the trees. What's even more surprising was that there was a small circular pond emitting faint white light, like a pond A lamp burns underneath.

"Is he throwing a party?" Underhill asked suspiciously. "The garden seems to be brightly lit." "No," Bagshaw replied. "It's one of his hobbies, and I think he likes to do it when he's alone. There's a little bungalow over there where he works and keeps his papers, and there's a little electric device in it that he likes to play with. Familiar with him Buhler said that when lights are on, it’s usually a warning that he doesn’t want to be disturbed.” "Equivalent to a red flag," cautioned another. "Oh my god! I'm afraid it's really a danger warning signal!" Before he finished speaking, he ran away.

Underhill soon also saw what made Bagshaw behave strangely.The pond was lying quietly in the garden like a bright moon, and the surrounding sloping water bank was glowing with a milky white halo, but it was not complete, and there were two black shadows in one place.They quickly saw that someone had fallen headfirst into the pond, with two long black legs slung randomly on the shore. "Quick," cried the detective, "I look like—" His voice was soon lost, and he ran swiftly across the wide lawn, illuminated by the faint light, through the large garden, and straight to the pond where a man lay.Underhill trotted along unhurriedly, but the sudden scene in front of him stunned him.Bagshaw shot like an arrow at the dark figure lying by the flooded pond, but he made a sharp turn halfway and accelerated towards the shadow of the house.Underhill didn't understand why he changed direction so suddenly.Shortly after the detective disappeared into the shadows, there were scuffles and curses.Bagshaw returned, dragging a short, red-haired man who was struggling.Obviously, that person was escaping from here just now under the shadow of the house, but the movement he made in the grass did not escape the ears of the detective.

"Underhill," said the detective, "I wish you would go over to the pond and see what's going on. Now tell me, who are you?" he asked, stopping. "what's your name?" "Michael Flood," replied the stranger crisply.The man looked unusually small, with a huge hooked nose that did not match his face.His face was as pale as parchment against the backdrop of his ginger hair. "I had nothing to do with it. I was terrified to find him lying there dead; but I was only sent by a newspaper to interview him." "When newspapers ask you to interview famous people," Bagshaw said, "do you usually do it through the wall?"

As he spoke, he pointed sullenly to the string of footprints on the path leading to the flowerbed. The man who called himself Flood was equally sullen. "Of course the interviewer couldn't rule out going over the wall," he said, "because no matter what I knocked at the front door no one could hear me. The servant was out." "How do you know he's out?" asked the detective suspiciously. "Because," said Flood with great coolness, "I was not the only one who got in over the garden wall. It seems possible that you yourself got in over the wall. But, anyway, that's what the servant did; because I just saw him come in over the wall on the other side of the garden, right by the garden gate."

"Then why doesn't he go through the garden gate?" asked the detective. "How do I know?" Flood shot back. "Because the door is locked, I suppose. But you'd better ask him than me; he's coming towards the house." Indeed, in the night dotted with flames, another black figure gradually approached. This man was short in stature, with a square head and square face, and was wearing an old uniform. Only the red vest looked decent.He seemed to be deliberately avoiding people's eyes and ears, and was rushing to the side gate of the house.Bagshaw yelled at him to stop.He moved toward them reluctantly, revealing a sullen yellow face, vaguely Asian, that matched his straight blue-black hair. Bagshaw suddenly turned to the man named Flood, and said, "Is there anyone in this house who can confirm your identity?" "Even in this country, few people can prove it," Flood said indignantly. "I've just come here from Ireland; the only person I know here is Father Brown, the vicar of St. Dominic's." "Neither of you can leave," said Bagshaw, and then to the servant, "you could go in and ring up Father Brown at St. Dominic's and see if he'd like to come here right away. Note Hold on, don't play tricks." While the energetic detective was busy securing the two suspects, his friend was rushed to the scene of the tragedy with orders.The scene was grotesque enough; indeed, if it were not tragic, it would be a very marvelous spectacle.The dead man (whom a simple examination revealed to be dead) plunged headlong into the water, the surrounding lights reflecting off his head like an unholy halo.The haggard face looked hideous, the eyebrows were bald, and the sparse dark gray curly hair looked like a small iron ring hanging on the top of the head; although the bullet hit the temple and destroyed part of the image, Underhill had seen it many times. A portrait of a man, easily identifiable by his facial features as Sir Humphrey Gwynn.The dead man was dressed in an evening dress, and his long black legs, as slender as a spider, fell in all directions on the steep slope where he fell into the water.Near the submerged head, as if demonic arabesques were playing some unearthly prank, the blood was still bubbling, swirling slowly in circles into the bright water, like transparent deep red sunset. Underhill stood staring at the hideous form.After an unknown amount of time, when he raised his head again, he saw four figures appearing on the shore.He could easily distinguish between Bagshaw and the Irishman he had captured, and it was not difficult to guess the identity of the servant from the red vest, but the fourth man was extraordinary, with a dignified demeanor, but a weird appearance , there is a bit of weird consistency in the mess.He was a stocky man with a round face and a hat like a black halo.It was actually a priest, he realized, but the look reminded him of some weird old black woodcut from the final scene of "Dance of the Skulls." Then he heard Bagshaw say to the priest: "I am very glad that you recognized this man; but you must understand that he is partly suspected. Of course, he may be innocent; but he did enter the garden in an extraordinary manner." "Oh, I think he's innocent," said the short priest flatly. "But of course I might be wrong." "Why do you think he is innocent?" "Because he entered the garden in an extraordinary way," answered the priest. "You see, I walked into the garden in the normal way. But I seem to be the only one who does it. It seems that good people these days go over the wall into the garden." "What do you mean by normal way?" asked the detective. "Well," said Father Brown, looking gravely at him, "I came in by the front door. I usually get into rooms that way." "Excuse me," Bagshaw said, "does it matter how you got in unless you're going to confess to murder?" "Yes, I think it matters," said the priest kindly. "Honestly, I saw something when I came in through the front door that I'm sure none of you noticed. I feel like it had something to do with it." "What do you see?" "I see a mess in there," said Father Brown mildly. "A large full-length mirror is broken, a small palm tree has been knocked to the ground, flower pots are here and there. Anyway, I think something is wrong." "You're right," said Bagshaw after a moment's pause. "If that's what you see, of course the conditions there have something to do with it." "If that has anything to do with it," said the priest very gently, "I am afraid there is one person who has nothing to do with it; and that is Mr. Michael Flood, who, in an unusual manner, climbed over the wall into the garden, and then Tried to leave the garden in the same unusual manner. It is because of his unusualness that I find him innocent." "Let's all go in," said Bagshaw suddenly. So the servant led the way, and the others followed into the house through the side door.Bagshaw stepped back a step or two to speak to his friend. "There was something weird about that servant," he said. "Professes to be called Grimm, but I don't look like it; however, he does seem to be Gwen's servant, apparently the only resident servant. It is strange, however, that he flatly denies that his master is in the garden, either dead or And that the old judge was off to a big legal dinner and won't be home in a few hours, and that's his excuse for slipping out." "Did he explain," Underhill asked, "why he slipped in in that strange way?" "No, I can't think of that either," answered the detective. "I really can't understand this man. He seems to be afraid of something." Entering by the side door, they found themselves at the inner end of the hall, which led to the main door at the other end, above which the fan windows were of dull, dated pattern.In the darkness, they gradually realized that there was a faint gray light scattered in the hall, as if it was a dull and dim dawn; but the light source was a lamp, which stood on a bracket in the corner of the hall, and the whole lamp and lampshade Also old style.Then the lights, and Bagshaw could make out the scene of the fight that Father Brown had mentioned.A tall, leafy palm tree in a pot lay across the ground.Crimson flower pots were also smashed, and shards of ceramic and broken mirrors shimmering with white flowers were strewn across the carpet.On the back wall at the end of the corridor hangs almost empty frames of mirrors.At right angles to this entrance, and directly opposite the side door through which they had entered, a similar corridor led into the interior of the house.There was a telephone at the end of the corridor, which the servant used to call the priest.There is a half-closed door over there, and through the crack of the door, rows of leather-covered tomes can be seen inside. This is the entrance to the judge's study. Bagshaw stood there, staring down at the scattered fragments of flower pots at his feet. "You're quite right," he said to the priest. "There was a fight here. Gwen must have fought the killer." "It seems to me," said Father Brown modestly, "that something happened here." "It goes without saying, it's obvious what happened," the detective echoed. "The murderer came in through the front door and found Gwen; Gwen probably let him in. The two had fought to the death, and maybe someone fired a shot in the middle of the melee and it hit the mirror, but if not, they were in The mirror might have been kicked in the fight too. Gwen struggled to break free and fled into the garden, where she was eventually shot dead by the pool by the pursuer. I think that's how the whole crime went; Check out the other rooms." The other rooms, however, offered few useful clues, though Bagshaw pointed meaningfully to the loaded automatic pistol found in the desk drawer of the study for everyone's attention. "It seemed like he had taken precautions against that," he said, "though, oddly enough, he didn't have the gun with him when he went into the lobby." At last they returned to the hall and made their way to the front door.Father Brown looked around casually.Both corridors were decorated with the same drab, dull gray wallpaper, which seemed to accentuate the splendor of the few early Victorian ornaments hidden beneath the dust and grime.But seeing that the bronze lamp was covered with spots of green rust, and the broken gold-plated frame of the mirror was slightly faded, but it was still shining brightly. "People say it's bad luck to break a mirror," he said. "This looks like an ominous house. There's something wrong with the furniture itself—" "It's so weird," Bagshaw said abruptly. "I thought the front door was closed, but it's clearly unlatched." Everyone remained silent, and went out the front door one after another, and entered the garden in the front yard.The flower beds here are narrower strips, but the layout is more regular. The flowers and plants at one end are cut into a peculiar hedge, leaving a hole in the middle, like a green cave, and some broken steps can be vaguely seen under the hole . Father Brown strolled over, bowed his head, and entered the hole.After he disappeared for a short while, the crowd was surprised to hear him talking calmly above their heads, as if he were talking to someone in the top of the tree.The detective followed into the hole, and found that the sheltered staircase ended in what looked like a broken bridge, overlooking the garden, which was even more empty in the gloom.It came right around the corner of the house, with a view of the meadow flickering with colored lights in the distance.The broken bridge was probably some abandoned architectural scheme, originally intended to create an arched terrace across the lawn.Bagshaw could not have imagined that someone would come to such a no-go place in the early hours of the morning; but he had no time to check the details of the place at that time, but just watched the person who appeared here. Because the man was standing with his back turned—a small man in a light gray suit—and what stood out most was his beautiful head of blond hair, which shone like a giant dandelion.It was almost like a halo of brilliance, and because of this, when the person turned his head slowly and glared at the others, the face was so eye-popping.In the imagination, the circle of halo should set off an angelic and kind oval face, but unexpectedly, what appeared in front of people was such a surly, old face with protruding cheekbones. , plus a snub nose that looked like a boxer's been flattened. "It's Mr. Orme, the famous poet, I suppose," said Father Brown, as calmly as if he were introducing two people in a drawing room. "Whoever he is," said Bagshaw, "I'm going to ask him to come with me and answer a few questions." Mr. Osric Orm, the poet, is a bit clumsy when it comes to answering questions.At this time, the morning sun first appeared, and the gray-white light began to diffuse over the dense hedges and broken bridges.In the corner of this ancient garden, the routine questioning gradually unfolded. As the questioner pressed forward and hit the nail on the head, Mr. Orm began to resist questions that were not good for him, insisting that he was only visiting Sir Humphrey Gwynn. , but never saw him, because no one came to answer the door after ringing the doorbell.When Bagshaw reminded him that the door was actually open, he snorted disdainfully.When Bagshaw hinted that his visit was too late, he yelled.He didn't speak much and was obscure, either because he really didn't know much English, or because he knew it well enough to pretend he didn't.His views seem to have a nihilistic and destructive streak.Indeed, this kind of emotion is clearly revealed in his poems, of course you have to be able to read it first; in addition, what happened between him and the judge, as well as the quarrel between him and the judge may be related to the loss of emotional control, so this happened serious consequence.Gwen was known to hate Bolshevik spies to the point of paranoia, just as he had hated German spies.At any rate, shortly after Bagshaw caught Orm, an incident of sheer chance reinforced Bagshaw's perception that the case was not to be dismissed.As they left the garden gate and came into the street, they happened to meet another neighbor, Buhler, the cigar dealer next door, whose brown sly face and distinctive orchid pinned to his buttonhole stood out because of his expertise in orchid gardening. Also a great character.To everyone's amazement, when he greeted his neighbor, the poet, he behaved as if it was a matter of course to see him. "Hi, we meet again," he greeted. "Looks like you've been talking to old Gwen for quite a while, haven't you?" "Sir Humphrey Gwynn is dead," said Bagshaw. "I'm looking into this case and need your explanation." Buhler, perhaps stunned, froze in place like a lamppost.The red light on the tip of his smoking cigar flickered on and off regularly, but his brown face was hidden in the shadow; when he spoke again, the tone of his voice changed. "I just wanted to say," said he, "that I happened to see Mr Orme go in through this gate to meet Sir Humphrey when I was passing two hours ago." "He said he hadn't seen Sir Humphrey yet," said Bagshaw, "or hadn't even been in the house." "He's been standing in the doorway long enough," Buller exclaimed. "Yes," said Father Brown, "a considerable amount of time standing in the street." "After that," said the cigar dealer. "I've been writing letters at home and then going out to post them." "You can talk about that later," Bagshaw said. "Good night—or rather, good morning." In the next few weeks, various newspapers and periodicals reported the trial of Osric Orm accused of killing Sir Humphrey Gwynn. When going to the streets and alleys and the gardens of various houses, those few people were discussing puzzles under the light poles.Everything returns to a mystery that everyone can't solve: what happened during the two hours from Buller seeing Orm entering the garden gate until Father Brown found Orm still wandering in the garden thing.He had enough time to do six cases, probably for the simple reason that he was bored and wanted to find something to do; because he couldn't justify himself as to what he had done during that time.The prosecution believes that he also had the opportunity to commit the crime, because the front door was ajar, and the side door leading to the large garden was opened and left open.The people in the court listened with relish to Bagshaw's reenactment of the scene. He clearly described the scene of the incident in the corridor, and all the signs clearly pointed to the fact that there had been a struggle there. The bullet that shattered the mirror.He also mentioned at last that he had personally inspected the opening in the hedge and found it to be a hiding-place.But on the other hand, Sir Matthew Black, a formidable advocate, turned the last point to his own advantage: he asked how one could put oneself in a situation from which there was nowhere to escape, the obvious But it was more natural to slip out of the garden and out into the street.Sir Matthew Black also makes good use of the mystery that still hangs over the motive for the killing.From this point of view, indeed, the defendant was in a better position after the close and even-handed confrontation between Sir Matthew Black and the equally good prosecuting counsel, Sir Arthur Travers.In desperation Sir Arthur throws out stories of a Bolshevik conspiracy, but the reasons are too far-fetched to be convincing.But when it comes to unraveling the facts about Orm's mysterious actions that night, Sir Arthur does a pretty good job, to great effect. Unable to withstand the persuasion of his lawyer, the defendant finally stepped onto the witness stand.His lawyer was wily, warning that he would come across as bad if he didn't.But not only did he have a communication barrier with his own defense lawyers, but he also insisted on keeping silent when communicating with the prosecution lawyers.Sir Arthur Travers thus made as much money as he could for himself, but could do nothing to get him to talk.Sir Arthur was a tall, haggard, pale, long-faced man, in stark contrast to Sir Matthew Black, with a stocky body and piercing round eyes.However, if Sir Matthew reminds one of a vain sparrow, Sir Arthur is more like a heron or a stork; when he leans forward to question the poet, his long nose is almost like a long beak. "Are you going to tell the jury," he asked in a harsh, questioning tone, "that you never went in to see the late old judge?" "Yes!" Aum replied simply. "You want to see him, I suppose. You must be in a hurry to see him. Didn't you wait at his door for two hours?" "Yes," replied another. "And yet you never noticed that the door was open?" "Yes," Orm said. "You actually stayed in someone's garden for two hours. What are you doing?" The barrister chased after him: "You're doing something, I guess?" "right." "Is it a secret?" asked Sir Arthur sarcastically. "It is a secret to you," replied the poet. The appearance of the word secret made Sir Arthur feel like a treasure, and he lost no time in making use of it as the main line to launch his accusation against the poet.In addition, he has made a bold move to make a big fuss about a murky motive and turn it into his own argument, which is the defense's strongest argument, so that some people think he is approaching the borderline shameless.More than once he hinted that there was some kind of conspiracy lurking in it, that a patriot fell into a trap carefully laid by the conspirators, as if he had fallen into the deadly entanglement of an octopus and died accordingly. "Yes," he declared impassionedly, "my learned friend was right! We don't know exactly why this respected civil servant was murdered. We'll never know why the next civil servant was murdered." If my learned friend had himself been caught up in fame, and had been the victim of the hatred that the forces of evil have for legal guardians, he would have been killed, and forever Don't even know why he was killed. Half the decent people in the courtroom are killed at home for no reason, and we can't find a reason for them being killed. As long as the defense can keep using this cliché under the banner of 'motivation' If platitudes are used as pretexts to obstruct our normal litigation work, we will never find the cause, never be able to stop the wanton carnage, until there are few people left in our country, because at the same time, all the other facts in this case, every place that cannot be The gaps in the self-justification and every speechless silence all tell us that it is Cain standing in front of us." "I never saw Sir Arthur so excited," Bagshaw said afterwards to his company. "People are talking about him crossing the line. The murder prosecutor shouldn't be so vindictive. But I have to say, I think that little monster is really evil. Coupled with his yellow hair, it's just It's even more creepy. I always vaguely remember that De Quincey once commented on the heinous Williams. The murderer killed both families without saying a word. He seemed to say that Williams He had yellow hair, very conspicuous and unnatural; and said he thought it was dyed by a trick he had learned in India, by which the Indians dyed horses green or blue. Besides, he His performance is also very strange, as silent as a wooden man. To be honest, I always feel that there is something wrong with him, and even developed to clearly see a monster in the dock. If Sir Arthur has an incomparable eloquence, then he You must also have a strong sense of responsibility, so you put so much passion into it.” "In fact, he's a friend of poor Gwen's," said Underhill softly. "A guy I know said he saw them together after a big legal dinner lately, It seemed very intimate. I dare say that is why he reacted so strongly in this case. I don't think it is appropriate to mix personal feelings into such cases." "He won't," Bagshaw said. "I can vouch that Sir Arthur Travers does not act out of mere feeling, however strongly he feels it. He knows what he is about, and he is exacting in everything. He is one of those ambitious, A man who is not satisfied no matter how much he achieves. I have never seen another man in this world who is as dedicated as he is. No; you are misreading the moral of his deafening tirade. If he really If he is sentimental, it is also because he thinks he is absolutely sure of conviction anyway, and wants to be at the forefront of some political movement against the plot he speaks of. He must have very good reasons for wanting to. Aum's crime, while also having some pretty good reason to believe he could do it. That means all the evidence is in his favor. He's so confident, it's not a good thing for the defendant." Speaking of which, he found Among the group of people appeared an unremarkable person. "Oh, Father Brown," he said, smiling, "what do you think of our judicial process?" "Oh," answered the priest absent-mindedly, "what amazes me most is how much a man can change when he puts on a wig. You keep saying how sublime that prosecuting attorney is. But I happened to see him put The wig came off for a while, but it was like a different person. For example, he was bald." "I'm afraid that doesn't change the fact that he's sublime," Bagshaw shot back. "You don't mean to suggest that the prosecuting attorney is bald in defense of the defendant?" "Not quite," said Father Brown kindly. "To tell you the truth, I was thinking how little one class knew of the other. Suppose I went to some remote place where the people had never heard of England. Suppose I said to them, There is a man in our country who puts on a straight wig first, made of horse hair, with a few small tails in the back, and gray corkscrews on the sides, like an old Victorian. woman, and then he would talk about life and death. They would think he must be crazy; Lawyers don't know anything; they don't know what a barrister is. Well, the barrister certainly doesn't know what a poet is. What he doesn't understand is that a poet's grotesque isn't grotesque to other poets. He It is inconceivable to think that Aum can hang around in a beautiful garden for two hours with nothing to do. God can learn from it! A poet can hang around the same yard for eight or nine hours at a time, which is nothing at all, because he is brewing A poem. Aum's defense attorney was just as stupid. He never thought to ask Aum the obvious question." "What question are you referring to?" asked another, puzzled. "Well, of course what he's writing about," replied Father Brown impatiently. "For example, which sentence did he suddenly think of, what words did he rack his brains to find, how did he point out the poetic lines, etc. If there is any educated person sitting in the court who knows what literature is, this People will know very well whether he is doing business at that time. You will ask a manufacturer about the production situation in his factory; but no one seems to care what the state of poetry is. In the process of poetry, the poet's appearance Performance is doing nothing.” "You have all the truth in what you say," replied the detective, "but why did he hide? Why did he climb up that crooked little staircase and stand there; it's a dead end." "Why, of course it's because it's a dead end," cried Father Brown, unable to restrain himself. “有机会看到那条悬在半空中的绝路的任何人都可能会想到，那是肯定是一个艺术家要去的地方，就像一个爱玩的小孩子那样。” 他站在那里眨巴一会眼睛，然后抱歉地说：“请原谅；不过，我真没想到，他们居然都不了解这些情况。对了，还有一件事。你是否知道，对于一位艺术家来说，任何东西都会有它最佳的一面或者角度？一棵树、一头奶牛、一片云彩，仅在某种特定的组合中，才会有一定的意义；正如三个字母都拼对了才能组成一个词。这么说吧，只有站在那个断桥上，才能获得最佳角度，更好地观赏点亮彩灯的花园。它是怀古伤今独一无二的场合。它是一种童话般的场景，凝缩着古今多少事，尽在眼前。站在那里，就如同俯瞰天国，树上结满繁星，而明亮的池塘犹如一轮皓月静静地卧在地上，就像幼儿园的孩子们听到的开心故事里描述的那样。他可以站在那里永远凝视着这幅画面。假如你告诉他，那条路走不通，他会告诉你，恰恰是这条路将他带到了远在天边的美妙国度。但你能指望他在证人席上说这些吗？如果他真这么说了，你会怎样回复？你们谈论的是，在一个人受审时，陪审团成员与他是同路人。为什么一个诗人受审时，他的陪审团不能由诗人组成呢？” “听你的口气，好像你本人就是个诗人似的，”巴格肖说。 “谢天谢地我不是，”布朗神父说。“你该感到庆幸的是，教士比诗人心底更善良。愿天主怜悯我们，要是你知道天主对你们这帮人怀着多么刻骨、冷酷的蔑视，你一定会觉得自己掉进了冰窟窿，感到彻骨的冰凉。” “你可能比我更了解艺术气质，”巴格肖稍停片刻之后说：“但是，这个问题的答案毕竟很简单。你只需证明他不论干了什么，但并没犯罪就行了。不过，话说回来，他同样有可能犯了罪。不然的话，又是谁干的呢？” “你想过那个仆人格林吗？”布朗神父若有所思地问道。“他的说法听着相当诡异。” “啊哈，”巴格肖脱口大叫，“你认为是格林干的，原来如此。” “我相当确信不是他干的，”布朗神父应道。“我不过是问你是否琢磨过他讲述的诡异情况。他出门不是要办什么大事，可能就是想去小喝几口，跟什么人有个约会之类的。但他却是从花园门出去，翻花园墙进来。换句话说，他出去时没锁门，回来却发现门被锁上了。为什么？因为有另外一个人出门时把门锁上了。” “那个杀人犯，”侦探满腹狐疑地嘟囔着。“你知道他是谁吗？” “我知道他的长相，”布朗神父不动声色地回答。“那是我唯一能确定的。我眼前几乎能显示出他走进前门时的样子，门厅灯光照着他；他的身形、衣着、甚至他的脸！” “这都是怎么回事啊？” “他看着很像汉弗莱·格温爵士，”教士说。 “你究竟是什么意思？”巴格肖质问道。“格温躺在池塘边上，已经死了。” “哦，没错，”布朗神父说。 过了一会儿，他接着说：“咱们还是回到你说过的那个理论，虽然我并不完全赞同，但还挺有道理。你提到凶手从前门进了法官家，正好在前厅与法官狭路相逢，两人开始搏斗，并打碎了镜子；法官随后逃入花园，终究没能躲过被枪杀的厄运。不知怎么的，这种说法总是让我感觉有违常理。假定他真是从大厅逃离，那么他在跑到头时面对着两个出口，一个进入花园，另一个通向屋内。显而易见，他跑进屋的可能性更大，对吧？他的枪在屋里；电话也在屋里；至少当时他以为，他的仆人也在屋里。即使是挨着最近的邻居，也处在那个方向。他为什么要停下来，打开通向花园的那扇门，反而去了这座房子的另一侧？那边可是什么都没有啊！” “但是我们知道他的确跑到了房子外面，”他的同伴不无疑惑地辩白说。“我们知道他出了屋，因为他是在花园里被发现的。” “他根本就没从屋里跑出来，因为他压根儿就不在屋里，”布朗神父说。“我是说，那天晚上没在屋里。他当时坐在那个小平房里。最初的时候，我在夜里看到花园中那些红红黄黄的彩灯，就看出了其中的讲究。那些灯的开关安置在小平房里；如果他没在小平房，那些彩灯也不会亮。他本来是想跑进屋，去打电话，就在他跑到了池塘边时，凶手开枪打死了他。” “可那个花盆、棕榈树和碎了的镜子又是怎么回事？”巴格肖喊叫着。“哎，那可是你最先发现的！你还亲口说门厅里一定发生过打斗。” 教士不无痛苦地眨着眼睛。“是吗？”他咕哝着说。“当然，我的确那么说过。我从未那么想过。我觉得我想说的是，大厅里发生了一些事。而且确实发生了，但却不是打斗。” “那么是什么打破了镜子？”巴格肖紧接着问道。 “一颗子弹击碎了镜子，”布朗神父神色凝重地答道：“由罪犯射出的一颗子弹。掉落的大块玻璃碎片足以撞倒花盆和棕榈树。” “喔，除了朝格温射击，还有什么东西是射击目标吗？”警探问道。 “这个问题本身就很玄奥，”神父几乎是梦呓般地说。“当然，从某种意义上看，他的确是瞄着格温开的枪。但他射中的并不是格温，因为那里没有格温。大厅里只有罪犯一个人。” 他沉默了一会儿，然后又平静地接着说。“想象一下走廊尽头的那面镜子，它还完整地挂在那里，棕榈树高悬在它上面。在半明半暗之中，镜子里反射的是这些单调的墙面，让人误以为那里就是走廊的尽头。反射在镜中的人影会让人觉得有人从屋里走了出来。而那个身影又特别像是房主人——即便只是大致上看着有点儿像他。” “稍等一下，”巴格肖叫道。“我想我开始——” “你开始明白，”布朗神父说。“你开始明白为什么本案涉及的嫌疑人都是无辜的。他们中的任何一位都不会将自己在镜中的影像误认为是老格温。奥姆立刻就能看出来自己的那头黄发，不可能看成秃头。弗勒德也能看出他自己那头红发，而格林更是能认出自己穿着的红马甲。另外，他们几个身材矮小，衣着邋遢；谁都不会把自己的影像看成一个身材高大、消瘦、身穿晚礼服的老绅士。我们需要找的是个身材跟他差不多一样瘦长的人。这就是为什么我会说，我知道凶手的长相。” “那么你会怎么辩护呢？”巴格肖凝神盯着他问。 神父突然发出一种尖锐、清脆的笑声，这跟他平常的轻声细语可大不一样。 “我要辨明的，”他说，“恰恰是你所说的十分滑稽、荒唐的东西。” "What do you mean?" “我为被告提供的辩护，”布朗神父说，“会基于这样一个事实，公诉律师是个秃子。” “噢，天哪！”侦探不由得惊叹一声，站起身，目瞪口呆。 布朗神父又从容不迫地开始了他的独白。 “在这件案子上，你们调查了许多人的来龙去脉；你们警方煞费苦心地要弄清那个诗人、仆人和爱尔兰人都干了什么。但你们似乎忘了查清死者本人曾经的动向。他的仆人发现主人提前回了家大感诧异。他知道，主人出门是去参加法律界头头脑脑们举行的盛大晚宴，却突然中途退场，提前打道回府。他并不是感到身体不适，因为他没有求助；几乎可以肯定的是，他跟某位法律界的领导人吵过一架。如果要找出他的敌人，就要从法律界的领导人入手。他回家后，将自己关在小平房里，那里保存着他搜集的所有有关卖国行为的私人文件。但那个法律界领导人知道，那些文件中有针对自己的材料，因此就跟踪而至，来到指控他的法官家；他来的时候还穿着晚礼服，但在衣服口袋里装着一把枪。情况大致如此；没人猜得出他会带着枪来这里，直到他开枪打碎了那面镜子。” 他眼神迷离，愣了一会儿，然后补充说： “镜子是件诡异的东西；镜框里曾映出过几百个不同的影像，全都那么栩栩如生，全都永远消失了。然而，那个镜子挂在灰色的走廊尽头，处在棕榈树的绿荫之下，它的确有非同一般的古怪之处。它仿佛是一面魔镜，与其同类有着迥然不同的命运，而它曾映射出的影像却又不知何故具有离开它仍能存留的能力，如同漂浮在微光散射的房子里的幽灵；或者至少像是个抽象的图案，描画出一段故事的梗概。至少我们能从那个虚幻的图景中看到阿瑟·特拉弗斯亲眼所见。另外，顺便提一下，有一点你是说对了。” “很高兴听到你那么说，”巴格肖严肃但不无善意地回应。 "What is it?" “你说过，”神父指出，“阿瑟爵士一定有什么理由，必要将奥姆置于死地。” 一周后神父又碰到了警探，并得知警方破案思路早已改变，但后来发生了耸人听闻的一件事，让他们的调查工作戛然而止。 “阿瑟·特拉弗斯爵士，”布朗神父先开了口。 “阿瑟·特拉弗斯爵士死了，”巴格肖的回应十分简单。 “啊！”另一位说，声音中流露着一丝哽塞：“你的意思是他——” “对，”巴格肖说，“他冲着同一个人开了枪，但这次打中的不是镜子。”