Chapter 9 Gong God

It was an ordinary early winter afternoon, cold and empty.The daylight was bleak and without warmth, showing a cool leaden gray.If the hundreds of drab offices and dreary studios bore you, the flat coast of Essex is even more so.The sparse array of street lamps here makes the monotony seem more inhuman, and the individual lampposts are more haphazard than the trees, or the trees are more crooked than the lamps.The light snow that just fell has half melted, leaving only strands of remnants on the ground, which have become leaden gray after being re-frozen by frost, and are no longer pure.The snow had stopped, but ribbons of snow were firmly entrenched on the shore, echoing the pale foam of the waves along the coast.

The junction of the sea and the sky has been frozen into a bright blue-purple, like a sudden blue vein on a frozen finger.Back and forth, uninhabited for miles, only two people were still walking briskly in this weather, but one of them had much longer legs than the other, and his strides were greater. It didn't seem like a good time for a vacation here, but Father Brown had few vacations, so he took them whenever he could.And, when possible, he always liked to spend vacations with his old friend Flambeau, who had been a criminal and later a detective.The priest had been thinking of seeing his old parish at Cobor when they were walking northeast along the coast.

After a mile or two they found that the shore had begun to be formally dammed in a long curve.Lampposts were fewer and farther apart, almost useless, but still ugly.After walking for nearly half a mile, Father Brown finally began to feel a little confused. Many flower pots arranged like a maze appeared in front of him. There were no flowers in the flower pots, but only low, flat plants with soft colors; Placed among the curved paths, it is more like a checkerboard sidewalk than a garden, and there are chairs with curved backs between the flower paths.This place has the atmosphere of a seaside city, but he didn't care much about it. He snorted softly and looked towards the embankment on the coast. What he saw confirmed his feelings even more.In the gray area in the distance, a large stage of a seaside playground stands tall, like a huge mushroom with 6 legs.

"I think," said Father Brown, turning up the collar of his coat and tightening the woolen scarf again, "that there might be a nice resort ahead." "I'm afraid," replied Flambeau, "there aren't many people who are having fun in the resorts at this time of year. They always try to make these places flourish in winter, but apart from Brighton and some of the old places, they don't It never worked out. This must be Westwood, Lord Poole is trying to run the place. He's got Sicilian singers for Christmas, and, I hear, there's going to be a big boxing match here. If that's the case Well, they'll have to throw this shit overboard first, it's almost as boring as a lone railroad car."

They came to the bottom of the stage, and the priest looked up curiously. He turned his head slightly to one side, like a bird with his head tilted, looking a little weird.The building is traditional in style, but too gaudy for its purpose: a flat dome, heavily gilded, supported by six slender lacquered wood columns.The whole stage is about 5 feet high from the embankment, and the bottom is a log platform shaped like a big drum.Flambeau and his companions were fascinated by the beauty of the white snow and the golden gleam of the man-made structures.The priest thought of something, but he couldn't really grasp it, but he saw at a glance that it was art, and it was a foreign beauty.

"I see," he said at last, "it's Japanese, much like those beautiful Japanese watermark woodcuts, where the snow on the mountaintops looks like sugar, and the gilding on the pagodas is like sugar." Like a coating on gingerbread. The building just happens to be a small pagan temple." "Yes," said Father Brown, "let us look upon their great god." He leaped onto the raised platform with rare agility. "Oh, that would be wonderful," said Flambeau, laughing, and in the blink of an eye his gigantic figure had appeared on the quaint plateau.

Although the platform was not much higher than the embankment, it still provided a wider view on such a barren flat land, allowing people to look across the plain and the sea as far as the eye can see.Looking inland, the little winter garden was completely submerged in a blur of gray bushes; in the distance stood a solitary farmhouse, with its low barn; Only the vast plains of East Anglia stretched out to the endless sky.There was not a trace of sail on the sea, and there was no sign of life except a few seagulls, and even these seagulls seemed to be the last few snowflakes floating in the air, rather than flying life.

Flambeau suddenly heard a cry behind him, and turned away hastily.The voice came from a lower place than expected, and seemed to linger at the heels, not the ears.He hastily stretched out his hand, but he still couldn't help laughing when he saw the scene below.Somehow, the platform beneath Father Brown's feet gave way, and the poor little man had fallen to the ground.He was just tall enough, or rather short enough, that all that was left was his head sticking out of the caved-in wooden hole, like John the Washer's head on the plate.The priest's face was full of uneasiness, which may also coincide with the expression of John the Baptist.

Flambeau was stunned for a moment and then laughed. "The log must be rotten," he said, "but it is strange that it should bear me, and you should fall. Come, and I will pull you out!" But the little priest just stared intently and curiously at the corner that was declared to be rotten wood, frowning tightly, looking very dignified. "Come on!" cried Flambeau impatiently, still holding out his big brown hand, "don't you want to come up?" The priest picked up a splinter of wood between forefinger and thumb, and made no immediate answer.After a long time, he finally said thoughtfully: "Get out? Oh no, I'd rather go in and have a look." He suddenly sank into the darkness under the plank, and because of his excessive movement, his broad-brimmed The priest's hat fell down and lay quietly on the upper wooden board.He himself has disappeared.

Flambeau looked around again, but found nothing new. It was still the same land and sea. The water was as cold as snow, and the snowfield was as flat and dull as the sea. Then there was a sudden noise behind him, and the little priest crawled out of the hole faster than he had fallen in.His face was no longer restless, but determined, and, perhaps just because of the white snow, his complexion was a little paler than usual. "Okay?" asked his tall companion. "Have you found the deity that is enshrined in this temple?" "No," replied Father Brown, "I have found something perhaps more important—an offering."

"What the hell do you mean?" cried Flambeau, alarmed. Father Brown made no answer.He frowned, staring blankly at the scene in front of him.Suddenly, he pointed forward: "What's the matter with that house?" Following the direction of his finger, Flambeau saw the corner of a house. It was actually closer than the farmhouse, but it was mostly hidden behind the bushes, so it hadn't caught his attention before. .The house is not big, and it is quite a distance from the sea, but from the gilded decoration of the house, it can be seen that, like the stage, the small garden, and the iron chairs with curved backs, they are all part of this seaside playground. Father Brown jumped off the stage, followed by his friend.When they walked in the direction they were looking for, the trees suddenly receded to both sides, and finally they came to a small hotel with a bright appearance, the kind of hotel that is common in resorts, with a private bar instead of the usual lobby bar hostel.The front walls of the hotel are decorated with gilt patterns and patterned glass.Against a gray seascape and ghostly groves, this flashy appearance adds a bit of ghostliness and horror.They all vaguely felt that if such a hotel could provide anything to eat or drink, it must be some papered ham or empty glasses for props in pantomime. They're not quite sure about that, though.When they got closer, they found that the restaurant was closed.In front of the dining room stood an iron chair used to decorate the garden. The back of the chair was curved, longer than the other chairs, and it leaned against the entire wall.Perhaps, it was placed there for tourists to sit and watch the sea, but in such weather, it seems that no one would do so. However, just in front of the end of the iron chair stood a small round table with a bottle of Chablis on it and a plate of almonds and raisins.Behind the round table, a young man with dark hair and no hat was sitting on a chair, gazing motionlessly at the seashore. When they were four yards away from him, he was still sitting still like a wax figure, but when they were three yards away, he suddenly jumped up like a doll popped out of a doll box.He welcomed the priest and his party in a respectful and dignified manner: "Gentlemen, do you want to go in? My shop assistants are not here right now, but I can still try my best to meet some simple requirements." "Thank you very much," replied Flambeau. "Then you are the owner of the inn?" "Yes," said the dark-haired man, regaining his composure a little, "my waiters are all Italian, you see, I think they ought to go and see how their countrymen beat that nigger. Oh, and the Mulvoli vs. Nigger Ned contest is about to start, you know that?" "I'm afraid we really have to trouble you," said Father Brown. "My friend would have liked a glass of sherry to keep out the cold, and wish our Latin fighter the best." Flambeau did not understand why sherry should be ordered, but made no objection, and simply said, "Thank you very much." "Sherry, sir?—oh, of course," said the host, turning to his inn. "Excuse me for any delay, and now my clerk is away—" He stepped towards the black-painted window with the shutter drawn. Painted hotel windows. "Oh, you needn't bother—" Flambeau was about to say something, when the man turned to him and assured him again: "I have the key, and I can find my way even if it's dark inside." "I don't mean—" began Father Brown. Just in the middle of speaking, he was suddenly interrupted by a roar.The sound came from an empty hotel.The thunderous voice seemed to be shouting a foreign name, but it couldn't be heard clearly.The innkeeper, already eager to fetch wine for Flambeau, stepped forward with even greater eagerness.This incident shows that what the hotel owner said before and after was not all true.Each time the incident was brought up afterwards, Flambeau and Father Brown were obliged to admit that in all their adventures (mostly thrilling) this one, suddenly emanating from a silent, empty hotel, The roar is indeed the scariest. "My cook!" cried the innkeeper hastily. "I've forgotten my cook! He'll be at work right away. Is it the Sherry's, sir?" Sure enough, a huge white figure appeared at the door, with a white hat and white apron, completely dressed like a chef should be, but the face was abruptly black.Flambeau had heard that blacks were good cooks.However, due to the sharp contrast of skin color and race, he felt even more strange that it was the hotel owner who responded to the chef's summons instead of the chef following the master's summons.But then he remembered that some chefs were known to be very haughty indeed; and besides, by this time the host had returned with the sherry, and that was all that mattered. "It's strange," Father Brown said, "since there is such a big competition, why are there so few people on the beach? We only saw one person on the way for several miles along the way." The owner of the hotel shrugged: "They come from the other side of town, you see, from the station side, which is about 3 miles away. They are only interested in sports games, and the hotel is just a place for overnight stays." After all, this kind of weather is not suitable for basking in the sun at the beach." "It's not suitable for sunbathing on a chair either," said Flambeau, pointing to the little round table. "I have to watch the wind." The owner replied blankly.He was a quiet and elegant young man, but not very good-looking; his dark coat was featureless, save for a black cravat tied high and fastened by a gold brooch of an odd shape like a shackle around his neck. .There was nothing special about his face either, except for some uneasiness which might be called sly—he seemed to have a habit of narrowing one eye a little, which gave the impression that the other was larger. The impression, or rather, makes people think that his other eye is fake, like a glass ball. The ensuing silence was broken by the shopkeeper's soft question: "Where did you meet that man when you came over?" "Strange enough," replied the priest, "it's near here, right there on the stage." Flambeau, who was sitting on a bench enjoying his sherry, put down his glass and stood up, looking at his friend in amazement.He opened his mouth to say something, but finally closed it. "Strange," said the dark-haired man thoughtfully, "what does he look like?" "It was dark when I saw him," said Father Brown, "but he—" As stated above, some of the things the innkeeper said were true.He said that the chef could start working immediately, which was obviously confirmed. They were talking when they saw the chef come out, putting gloves on his hands as he walked. But compared with the big black and white man standing at the door just now, the image of this person is quite different now.From the bottom to the top, to those bulging eyeballs, he was tightly fastened with buttons and buckles, and they were all the latest styles.A tall black hat is slanted on the broad black head, which is the kind of hat that the French sages compared to an eight-sided mirror.Somehow the Negro looked a bit like the black hat: he was black too, and his smooth skin reflected light from eight or more angles.He wore a pair of white high boots and a white shirt under his vest, it goes without saying.But the most abrupt thing is a red flower inserted in the buttonhole, which seems to have grown out of it suddenly.The way he leaned on his cane in one hand and held his cigar in the other conveyed a certain air, the kind of gesture we all tend to think of when we talk about racism: something that is both candid and really wild—the cake walk. "Sometimes," said Flambeau, his eyes still following him, "you can't really blame people for lynching them." "I'm never surprised by the evil deeds from hell," said Father Brown. "But as I said—" as Father Brown spoke, the Negro was still wearing the yellow Gloves, while sprinting to the beach playground--that stage that looks very eerie against the gray, bleak background.He continued, "As I said, I can't describe the man exactly, but I remember he had a thick, old-fashioned beard, dark and possibly dyed, like Those foreign financial tycoons in the pictorial. He has a long purple scarf wrapped around his neck, which blows into the wind when he walks. The scarf is fixed at the throat, just like a nanny uses safety pins to fix a child's neck. Only But," added the priest, gazing calmly at the sea, "he didn't use a safety pin." The man sitting on the bench was also gazing at the sea calmly, and now he sat still, motionless.Flambeau was quite sure that his eyes, one large and one small, were indeed natural, and they were now fully opened.He could almost imagine that his left eye was bigger when he was looking at something intently. "It was a very long gold brooch with the end carved in the shape of a monkey, or something like that," the priest went on, "and it was fastened in a very peculiar way—he wore a pair of pince-nez and a wide the black—" The silent man is still staring at the sea, his eyes seem to belong to two different people.Then he acted with lightning speed. Father Brown's back was turned to him, and he was going to die in an instant.Flambeau was unarmed, but his large brown hands rested on the end of the bench.He suddenly exerted strength on his shoulders and lifted the huge thing above his head, like an executioner holding up an ax that was about to fall.The chair itself is not high, but after being lifted up by him, it becomes a long iron ladder leading people up to the starry sky; under the reflection of the night light, the long shadow cast on the ground is like a giant waving eiffel tower.Before the chair fell down, the mysterious stranger was scared out of his wits by the shadow.He dropped the sharp and shiny dagger in his hand and fled into the hotel in a hurry. "Get out of here!" Flambeau yelled, throwing the huge chair on the sand with all his might.He grabbed the little priest by the arm and dragged him into the misty and desolate night of the back garden.At the end of the garden stood a locked gate, and Flambeau, without saying a word, stooped down and fiddled with it angrily: "The gate is locked." As he spoke, there was a faint gunshot in the distance, and a black feather fell from the ornamental fir tree and just brushed the brim of his hat.Flambeau started, for the feather frightened him more than the shot.Then, there was another explosion from a distance, and then a bullet shot into the door he was desperately trying to open, and the door shook.Flambeau gathered strength on his shoulders again, and with a sudden force, three hinges and the lock snapped simultaneously, and he jumped onto the empty path behind the door, still carrying the huge garden door on his shoulders, like a Hercules parade. Sun carries the gates of Gaza. He flung the garden door back into the wall, and just then there was another shot, and a handful of snow mixed with mud splashed from his heel.He didn't care about etiquette anymore, grabbed the priest, carried him on his shoulders, and ran towards West Wood as fast as he could with his legs, until he had rushed nearly two miles before his little companion put it down.Even with ancient Anchises as a precedent, it was by no means a decent escape, but Father Brown grinned. They were on their way again, through the streets outside the town, where there should be nothing to worry about. "Well," Flambeau finally broke the silence impatiently, "I don't understand what's going on, but I must believe my eyes. I haven't seen you meet the one you describe. Detailed people." "In a way, I did meet him," Brown said, nibbling his fingers nervously. "I did see him. It was just so dark that I couldn't see it because it was on stage. Below, though, I am afraid I have not described it accurately enough, for his pince-nez fell under him and was shattered, and the gold long pin pierced not his purple scarf, but his heart. " "I guess," said Flambeau in a low voice, "that glass-eyed guy must have something to do with it." "I hoped he had nothing to do with it," said Father Brown anxiously. "Maybe I was wrong. I was too impulsive. But I'm afraid there's something in it, and it's not good." They walked on in silence, through a few more streets.The yellow street lamps began to light up, casting a hint of warmth in the blue and cold twilight.Evidently, they were approaching the center of town.The streets were filled with colorful posters of the nigger Ned and Malvoli boxing match, rustling against the walls in the cold wind. "Oh," said Flambeau, "I never killed, not even when I was a criminal. But I feel a little for someone who kills in such a dreary place. In all the ruins that God forsaken Here, the most embarrassing thing is that a place like that stage, which was supposed to bring people happiness, has become so miserable. I can imagine that in this lonely and teasing environment, a sick person must Will have the urge to kill an opponent. I remember walking through your beautiful Surrey Hills once, and all I could think about was skylarks and gorse. As we walked, we came to a circular clearing with A quiet grand building with rows of seats, as grand as the Colosseum, but empty at the same time - that is the Great Racecourse at Epsom. Lonely birds glide through the air, the For a moment, I thought, no one in this place is going to be happy anymore." "It's strange that you mention Epsom at this moment," said the priest. "Do you remember the so-called Sutton Mystery? Because the two suspects—the ice cream maker, I suppose—happened to be living in Sutton. They were eventually released. Someone was said to have been strangled in the downlands nearby. In fact, a friend of mine who is an Irish police officer told me he was killed near the Epsom racecourse. Discovered—actually hidden behind a low, open door." "That's odd enough," agreed Flambeau, "but it just confirms my point that these lively places are really deserted in the off-season, or the man wouldn't have been murdered there." gone." "I'm not sure he—" Father Brown hesitated. "Not sure he was murdered?" his partner asked suspiciously. "Not sure he was murdered because of the off-season," said the little priest, with a certain air of innocence. "Don't you think there's something strange about this solitude, Flambeau? You think a clever murderer Do criminals always need to find a secluded place to commit crimes? It is very rare that a person is really alone, and when he is alone, he is more likely to attract attention. No, no, no, I think there must be other - why, here we are Which pavilion is still in the palace? What else is it called?" They walked into a small brightly lit square, and saw the main building was resplendent with colorful posters, and on both sides were huge pictures of Malvoli and Ned the Nigger. "Well," Flambeau wondered, as his clergyman clumsily stepped straight up the wide steps, "I didn't know you'd been into boxing lately. Are you going to the match?" "I don't think there's going to be any competition," replied Father Brown. They passed quickly through the vestibule, the inner hall, and across the ring.The arena has been set up, surrounded by a thick rope fence, surrounded by countless seats and boxes.But the priest ignored them all and went straight to the information desk, behind which the door was marked "Game Committee".He stopped at the information desk and asked the clerk there to see Lord Pooley. The clerk said Lord was busy and the game was about to start.But Father Brown, who is mild-mannered, actually flirts with him, which is beyond his expectation.Presently Flambeau stood in front of a man who was yelling at another who was going out: "Be careful, you know, after the fourth round the rope--well, what's the matter with you?" Lord Pooley was a gentleman of sorts, and, like most surviving nobles of this era, he was particularly concerned with matters of money.His flaxen hair was half gray, but his eyes still shone with fanaticism, and his nose was high-bridged, with chilblains on the tip. "Just one word," said Father Brown, "I've come to prevent a murder." Lord Poole sprung up as if on springs under his chair. "I can't take it anymore!" he yelled. "You and you committees! Priests! And the goddamn pleas! They used to play without gloves. Why didn't you gossip back then? Now they don't." Wearing regular gloves, neither of them can be killed!" "I don't mean Boxer," said the priest. "Okay! Alright! Alright!" said the noble gentleman, with a sarcasm tone, "Then who will be killed? Could it be the referee?" "I don't know who it is," replied Father Brown, gazing at him thoughtfully. "If I had known, I wouldn't be here to spoil your fun. I'd just take him away. I absolutely I don’t think there’s anything wrong with this kind of game. But now that it’s happened, I have to ask you to call a timeout immediately.” "Is there any other order?" The gentleman said mockingly, his eyes sparkled with excitement, "How are you going to explain it to the 2,000 spectators who came to watch the game?" "I'll tell them one of them won't get out of here alive if they insist on going to the game," replied Father Brown. Lord Pooley looked at Flambeau. "Is your friend crazy?" he asked. "It's too early to be mad," replied Flambeau. "You see," said Lord Pooley, always looking restless, "it's even worse here. A bunch of Italians rushed to support their Marvoli, how can I say, rough, Dark-skinned bumpkins. You also know how tempered these Mediterranean people are. If I announce the suspension of the game at this time, Marvoli will rush here with his entire Corsican tribe." "My lord, this is a matter of life and death," said the priest. "Ring the bell quickly and let them know, and we'll see if it's Malvoli who has settled accounts with you." The Lord was quite curious, and finally rang the summons bell on the table.The clerk appeared at the door immediately, and Lord Puli ordered, "I want to announce an important announcement to the audience. Also, can you help me tell our two contestants that the game may have to be postponed." The clerk stared at him for several seconds as if he had seen a ghost, and finally backed out. "Do you have any evidence for this?" Lord Puli asked suddenly, "Have you consulted anyone?" "I asked for a stage," said Father Brown, scratching his head. "Oh, no, I was mistaken. I also asked for a book. Bought it cheaply at a newsstand in London. " He took from his pocket a sturdy little book bound in leather.Over his shoulder Flambeau could see it was an old travel book, with a page folded out for reference. "Vodoo—" Father Brown began to read aloud. "What what?" the Lord couldn't help asking. "Vodoo," the priest repeated with interest, "the only form widely spread outside of Jamaica is the form known as the 'monkey,' or 'gong god.' It is found in North and South America. It is very influential in many places, especially among people of mixed race, many of whom look almost indistinguishable from white people. It is different from most other forms of ghost worship. In fact, where there is real bloodshed Not at the altar, but with some kind of assassination in the crowd. When the door of the shrine is opened, there is a thundering gong, and then the monkey god appears, and almost all the attendees fix their feverish eyes on the On him. But then—" The door was slammed open, and the stylish Negro stuffed the entire door frame.He rolled his eyes, the silk hat still slanted wildly on his head. "Ha!" he cried, baring his teeth like a monkey, "what's this? Ha! Humph! You stole a reward from a Negro gentleman—the reward—you think, huh! You think Saved that white Italian trash—" "The game is only postponed," said the nobleman quietly. "I will explain to you in a minute or two." "You think you're—" growled Ned the Nigger, furiously. "My name is Puli," another person replied quietly, "Secretary General of the organizing committee, I advise you to leave this room immediately." "Who is this guy?" the black player asked, pointing at the priest arrogantly. "My name is Brown," answered the priest, "and I advise you to leave the country as soon as possible." The haughty Boxer stared blankly for a moment, then, to everyone's surprise, he slammed the door and strode out. "By the way," asked Father Brown, brushing his dusty hair upward, "what do you think of Malvoli? A clever Italian." "You see," said Lord Pooley, "I am very much responsible for your empty words. I think you must make it clear to me." "You're quite right, my lord," replied Brown, "and it won't take much time." He put the little leather-bound book back in his coat pocket. "I think we already know the useful information in this book, but you can also read it to see if I'm right. That high-spirited black man who just went out is one of the most dangerous people on this earth. Because he With a European mind and a cannibal instinct, he organized slaughter, which was a simple, common practice among his savage countrymen, into a scientific and modern assassination organization. He didn't know that I Knowing about it, of course, he doesn't know that I have no evidence." After a moment's silence, the priest continued: "But if I want to kill someone, do I have to be alone with him?" The cold irony returned to Lord Pooley's eyes as he looked at the little priest."If you're going to kill someone, I think I'd suggest that," he said. Father Brown shook his head as if he were a seasoned murderer. "That's what Flambeau said," he said with a sigh, "but think about it, the more lonely a man feels, the less sure he is alone. If it is alone, it must mean that there is a lot of open space around him." , and that makes him more conspicuous. Is it not easier to see the plowman when you stand on a high ground? Or the shepherd in the valley? Is it not easier to see when you walk along the cliff alone? To the man walking on the beach? Wouldn't you know he killed a crab? If it was a creditor, wouldn't you guess it was the debtor? No, no, no! For a man like you For a clever murderer like me, it's almost impossible to be sure that no one is watching you." "But is there another way?" "There's only one way," said the priest, "and that's to make sure everybody's looking at something else. There's a man strangled near Epsom. Anyone could have bumped into it if nobody was in the stands at the time." This murder--anyone who walks by the hedges or drives in the hills can do it. But when the stands are filled with spectators, the shouts are thundering, all shouting whether their chosen horse is leading or trailing , strangling the neck, and stuffing the dead body behind the door, is easy to do, if it is done in the moment of excitement. Of course," he turned to Flambeau, "what the poor fellow offstage met was In this case, he was thrown into the hole at the climax of the scene (the hole was not accidental), which may be the time when some famous violinist is bowing out, or it may be a When the big stars start singing or are singing their climax. And here, of course, when the game starts and one side is knocked down by the other and the crowd cheers-of course there is more than one such time. This is Nigga Ned A little trick learned from their ancient gong god." "By the way, that Marvoli -" said Lord Pooley. "Mulvoli," said the priest, "has nothing to do with it. I dare say he did bring some Italians, but the friends we're looking for aren't Italians. They're half mulattos." and some African mixed races, but I'm afraid to us British, all foreigners are no different as long as they are black and dirty. And," he added with a smile, "I'm afraid the British don't bother to distinguish The nuances between voodoo and the virtues cultivated by our religion." With the warm spring breeze, Father Brown and Flambeau came to Westwood again.Life came back to life here, the beach was full of people and bathing facilities, full of missionaries and black singers wandering around, and the wave of hunting for that strange mysterious organization was far from over at this time.In any case, the purpose of that organization has become a mystery forever with their disappearance.It was found that the owner of the hotel was already dead, floating on the sea like seaweed.His right eye was peacefully closed, but his left eye was still wide open, shining like a glass ball in the moonlight.黑鬼奈德被追出了大概一两英里，他挥动左拳，打死了3名警察。剩下一名警察惊呆了，不，应该说是悲痛万分，黑人便趁机逃之夭夭。但这已足以在英国报界掀起轩然大波，此后一两个月内，大英帝国的主要目的便是阻止那黑鬼（不管是字面上还是本质上都很贴切）从任何港口逃跑。许多人虽然与他身形相去甚远，却不得不接受最严厉的审查，登船前必须使劲擦他们的脸，就好像所有白色的面庞都是由油彩画成的面具。英格兰的每个黑人都处于极端的管制之下，且必须上报他们的行动。所有出海的船只决不允许搭载黑人，就像不准搭载蛇怪一样。人们已经知道，这野蛮的秘密社团的力量是多么神秘而可怕，他们的势力范围又是多么宽广。因此，当弗朗博和布朗神父于4月间回到这里，惬意地斜倚在堤坝的扶栏上时，“黑人”一词在英格兰的含义几乎和此前在苏格兰时一样了。 “他一定还在英格兰，”弗朗博推测说，“而且肯定藏得很好。如果他只是涂了白脸的话，他就肯定已经在港口落网了。” “你看，他确实是个聪明人，”布朗神父解释说，“而且我肯定他没有把自己的脸弄白。” “好吧，那他会怎么做呢？” “我想，”布朗神父说，“他会把自己的脸抹黑。” 弗朗博一动不动地倚在栏杆上，大笑了起来：“哦，我亲爱的朋友！” 布朗神父同样静静地倚在栏杆上，伸出一根手指，指了指将脸涂上炭黑的一群黑人，他们正在沙滩上唱歌。