The Innocence of Father Brown | Page 4

Hence the great Valentin, when he set out to find
Flambeau, was perfectly aware that his adventures would not end when he had found
him.
But how was he to find him? On this the great Valentin's ideas were still in process of
settlement.
There was one thing which Flambeau, with all his dexterity of disguise, could not cover,
and that was his singular height. If Valentin's quick eye had caught a tall apple-woman, a

tall grenadier, or even a tolerably tall duchess, he might have arrested them on the spot.
But all along his train there was nobody that could be a disguised Flambeau, any more
than a cat could be a disguised giraffe. About the people on the boat he had already
satisfied himself; and the people picked up at Harwich or on the journey limited
themselves with certainty to six. There was a short railway official travelling up to the
terminus, three fairly short market gardeners picked up two stations afterwards, one very
short widow lady going up from a small Essex town, and a very short Roman Catholic
priest going up from a small Essex village. When it came to the last case, Valentin gave it
up and almost laughed. The little priest was so much the essence of those Eastern flats; he
had a face as round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling; he had eyes as empty as the North
Sea; he had several brown paper parcels, which he was quite incapable of collecting. The
Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out of their local stagnation many such
creatures, blind and helpless, like moles disinterred. Valentin was a sceptic in the severe
style of France, and could have no love for priests. But he could have pity for them, and
this one might have provoked pity in anybody. He had a large, shabby umbrella, which
constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to know which was the right end of his
return ticket. He explained with a moon-calf simplicity to everybody in the carriage that
he had to be careful, because he had something made of real silver "with blue stones" in
one of his brown-paper parcels. His quaint blending of Essex flatness with saintly
simplicity continuously amused the Frenchman till the priest arrived (somehow) at
Tottenham with all his parcels, and came back for his umbrella. When he did the last,
Valentin even had the good nature to warn him not to take care of the silver by telling
everybody about it. But to whomever he talked, Valentin kept his eye open for someone
else; he looked out steadily for anyone, rich or poor, male or female, who was well up to
six feet; for Flambeau was four inches above it.
He alighted at Liverpool Street, however, quite conscientiously secure that he had not
missed the criminal so far. He then went to Scotland Yard to regularise his position and
arrange for help in case of need; he then lit another cigarette and went for a long stroll in
the streets of London. As he was walking in the streets and squares beyond Victoria, he
paused suddenly and stood. It was a quaint, quiet square, very typical of London, full of
an accidental stillness. The tall, flat houses round looked at once prosperous and
uninhabited; the square of shrubbery in the centre looked as deserted as a green Pacific
islet. One of the four sides was much higher than the rest, like a dais; and the line of this
side was broken by one of London's admirable accidents--a restaurant that looked as if it
had strayed from Soho. It was an unreasonably attractive object, with dwarf plants in pots
and long, striped blinds of lemon yellow and white. It stood specially high above the
street, and in the usual patchwork way of London, a flight of steps from the street ran up
to meet the front door almost as a fire-escape might run up to a first-floor window.
Valentin stood and smoked in front of the yellow-white blinds and considered them long.
The most incredible thing about miracles is that they happen. A few clouds in heaven do
come together into the staring shape of one human eye. A tree does stand up in the
landscape of a doubtful journey in the exact and elaborate shape of a note of interrogation.
I have seen both these things myself within the last few days. Nelson does die in the
instant of victory; and a man named Williams does quite accidentally murder a man
named Williamson; it sounds like a sort of infanticide. In short, there is in life an element

of elfin coincidence which people reckoning on the prosaic may perpetually miss. As it
has been well expressed in the paradox of Poe, wisdom should