第6章 花园血案之谜(3)

瓦伦丁（镇定而谦恭地注视着神父）已经恢复了常态，“哦，”他立刻说，“个人的意见可以先保留，各位绅士务必信守承诺，不要擅自离开，并且互相监督。各位想要了解更多其他情况，可以向伊万询问，我必须公事公办，并向局里打报告。我们不能再隐瞒下去了。我一会儿会去书房写报告，有任何新的情况，请速来找我。”

“还有其他新的情况吗，伊万？”瓦伦丁局长刚迈着大步出去，西蒙医生就过来问道。

“我想，是有一件事，先生，”伊万皱着他那张灰色的脸说，“不过从某方面来说确实很重要。关于那个你在草坪上找到的老家伙，”他毫不客气地指着那个脸色发黄的黑色尸体说，“不管怎么说，有人告诉了我们他是谁。”

“真的？”西蒙医生惊讶地喊道，“那他是谁呢？”

“他的名字叫阿诺德·贝克尔，”伊万说，“不过，他还有许多化名。他是那种到处乱窜的流氓，据我们所知，他在美国待过，就是在那里和布雷恩结仇的。我们没怎么和他打过交道，因为大部分时间他都是在德国活动。我们倒是和德国警察局进行了沟通。但是很奇怪，他还有一个双胞胎兄弟，名叫路易斯·贝克尔，我们倒是和他经常打交道。事实上，就在昨天，他被执行死刑了。哦，这真是一个离奇的案件。先生们，当我看到这家伙躺在草坪上的时候，从未如此惊讶过。要不是我们曾亲眼见到路易斯·贝克尔被执以死刑，我发誓，这个躺在草坪上的人就是他。缓过神来，我才记起他有个双胞胎兄弟在德国，于是就按这条线索追踪下去……”

伊万不再解释了，因为这会儿没人听他的了。奥布瑞恩长官和西蒙医生都盯着布朗神父，布朗神父僵硬地跳起来，死死地按着太阳穴，就像一个突然剧烈头痛的人。

“停！停！停！”他喊道，“别再说了，我已经明白了一大半。上帝，请赐予我力量吧！让我的脑袋足够聪明，揭开所有的谜团！上帝，快来帮帮我！我向来善于思考，我曾经阐释过《阿奎那宝典》的每一页。快让我的脑袋一分为二——或者找出答案！现在，我才弄清楚一半——仅仅一半！”

他把头埋在手中，站在那里，就像一个正在经历痛苦和折磨的思考者或者祷告者，而其他三个人对于这混乱的十二个小时内所发生的奇事，只能继续观望。

布朗神父把手拿下来时，看起来一脸严肃，但是精神饱满，像个孩子。他重重地叹了口气，说道：“我们尽快处理这件事吧。听我说，这是让众人信服的最佳办法。”他对西蒙说，“西蒙医生，你思维敏捷，我听说你早上推断出五大疑点。那么，如果你想要弄清楚的话，就让我来回答。”

西蒙满腹狐疑，就连眼镜从鼻梁上滑了下来，他都没有发现，他立刻回答道：“好吧，疑点一：为什么用匕首就可以杀人，却要用笨重的军刀？”

“因为用匕首砍不下来脑袋，”布朗冷静地说，“对这桩案件而言，砍下脑袋是绝对有必要的。”

“为什么？”奥布瑞恩饶有兴趣地问道。

“下一个疑点？”布朗神父问道。

“为什么死者没有叫喊或是发出声音？”西蒙医生又问，“在花园里出现军刀确实不同寻常。”

“树枝，”神父沮丧地说着，转向窗户，看着案发现场，“没有人注意到树枝这个关键细节。为什么它们会出现在离树木很远的草坪上？它们不是被折断的，而是被砍掉的。凶手当时正用军刀耍着把戏，以此来吸引死者的注意力，让他看如何在半空中砍断树枝，或者诸如此类的把戏。接着，当死者低头看被砍下的树枝时，军刀不动声色地砍来，然后人头落地。”

“哦，”西蒙医生慢吞吞地说，“这听起来似乎合情合理。但是接下来的两个疑点，你又将作何解释？”

神父依然站在那里，一脸严肃地盯着窗外，停顿了一下，接着说：

“这个花园被严密地包围起来，犹如一个密不透风的房间，既然如此，那么这个陌生男子又是如何进到花园里来的？”

小个子神父没有转身，回答道：“花园里从来没有出现过任何陌生人。”

又是一阵沉寂。突然，一阵孩子般咯咯的笑声打破了这种紧张的气氛。布朗神父的这番荒谬的解释引起了伊万的公然嘲笑。

“噢！”伊万喊道，“那么，难道我们昨晚没有把一个笨重的尸体拖到沙发上？他从来就没有走进花园？”

“走进花园？”布朗若有所思地重复道，“不，不完全是。”

“真该死，”西蒙喊道，“一个人进了花园或者没有进来。”

“不一定非得如此，”神父微微一笑，说道，“下个疑问是什么，医生？”

“我想你病得不轻，”西蒙医生尖锐地喊道，“你要是愿意回答的话，我的下一个疑问是，布雷恩是如何走出花园的？”

“他没有走出花园。”神父说，他依然望着窗外。

“难道他没有离开过花园？”西蒙突然喊道。

“不完全是这样。”布朗神父说。

西蒙挥舞着拳头，表现出典型的法国式狂躁。“一个人离开了花园，或者没离开过。”他喊道。

“也不完全是这样。”布朗神父说。

西蒙医生不耐烦地猛地站起来。“我不会把多余的时间浪费在这毫无意义的谈话上，”他怒气冲冲地喊道，“如果你不知道这个人到底是在墙里还是墙外，那么我不会再烦你。”

“医生，”神父彬彬有礼地说，“我们一直相处得不错，看在老朋友的分上，赶快告诉我你的第五个疑问。”

西蒙不耐烦地坐到门边的椅子上，轻描淡写地说道：“脑袋和肩膀的分离方式非常蹊跷，好像是死者死后才被砍掉的。”

“是的，”神父一动不动地说，“这样做只是为了让你更相信自己做出的错误假设是对的，让你认为这颗脑袋属于这个尸体。”

人的大脑无边无际，那里可以制造一切罪恶，它们在奥布瑞恩的脑袋里迅速滋生。他仿佛看到了很多善男信女混杂在一起，在那里，男人有了不寻常的生育能力。一个神父用苍老的声音说道：“离开这个可怕的花园，那里结着双面果。赶快逃离这个邪恶的花园，那里有一个死人的两颗脑袋。”然而，当这个罪恶的念头闪过他那古老的爱尔兰灵魂时，法国式的智慧最终还是占了上风，于是他和其他人一样满腹狐疑地听着这个古怪神父的言论。

布朗神父最后转了过来，倚窗而立，脸埋在阴影里。尽管如此，大家还是可以看出来，他的脸如死灰一样苍白，但是他说话时还是那么有条不紊。

“各位绅士，”布朗说，“你们在花园里找到的陌生尸体并不是贝克尔，花园里也没有任何陌生人的尸体。这只是西蒙医生的推理，我可以确定，你们看到的只是贝克尔身体的一部分。看这里！”（他指着那个神秘尸体的黑色身躯）“你们有生以来确实没有见过那个人，你们曾经见过这个人吗？”

他迅速地把那个陌生的黄色秃头踢开，然后把旁边那个白头发的脑袋安了上去，完全吻合。毫无疑问，躺着的这个人就是朱利叶斯·布雷恩。

“凶手，”布朗继续平静地说道，“把仇人的头砍下，然后把军刀扔到墙外。但他是个聪明人，不只把军刀扔了出去，也把那颗脑袋扔了出去。随后，他又把另外一颗脑袋匆匆安上，这样（由于他坚持私下调查），你们就把他完全想象成了另外一个人。”

“安上另外一颗脑袋？”奥布瑞恩目不转睛地问，“什么另外一颗脑袋？草地上并不会长脑袋，不是吗？”

“当然不会了，”布朗神父看着他的靴子，声音嘶哑地说，“只有一个地方会长。它就是断头台上的篮子，而它旁边就是警察局局长瓦伦丁，在谋杀前不到一小时的时间里，他就守候在那里。哦，我的朋友，在把我撕成碎片之前，再听我说一分钟。他是个诚实的人，可是由于某种合理的原因，他变得如此疯狂。但是，难道你们没有从他那冷酷、灰色的眼睛里看到一丝疯狂吗？他能干出任何事，真的是任何事，只要是与粉碎他所谓的‘十字架迷信’有关，他就会为之战斗终身。如今，他已经为此去杀人。布雷恩的万贯财产会因此分散到众多教派，如此一来，原有的格局就不会发生太大的变化，平衡也不会被打破。但是，瓦伦丁听说布雷恩对宗教持怀疑态度，并且更倾向于支持我们。如此一来，事情就不同了。布雷恩就会资助穷困而好斗的法国教会，以及包括《断头台》在内的六家民族主义报纸。此时箭已在弦上，这个狂热者不得不铤而走险。于是，瓦伦丁决定干掉这个千万富翁，他真这样干了，正如人们所看到的，这么一个大侦探也能犯一次罪。他利用犯罪学，合理地降罪于贝克尔，并砍下了他的脑袋，之后放在他的公文箱中带回了家。直到最后，他还在和布雷恩辩论，而加洛韦勋爵并没有听完他们的谈话就离开了。随后，瓦伦丁就把布雷恩领到这个密不透风的花园，讨论刀法，并用树枝和军刀来示范，然后……”

面带伤疤的伊万跳起来喊道：“你这个疯子！你应该马上去见我的主人，不然我就……”

“怎么了？我正要过去呢，”布朗郑重其事地说，“我必须让他去坦白交代所有一切。”

人们都跟在一脸严肃的布朗身后，就像挟着一个人质或是祭品。大家涌到瓦伦丁的书房时，突然停了下来。

大侦探瓦伦丁坐在桌边，他显然太专注了，以至于没有听到门口的动静。大家停了一会儿，西蒙医生发现在瓦伦丁笔直优雅的后背上有什么东西，便猛地跑过去碰了他一下。人们看见在瓦伦丁的胳膊肘边有一个小药盒子，瓦伦丁死在了椅子上，而他那毫无表情的脸上还带着比加图还自豪的神情。

Aristide Valentin， Chief of the Paris Police， was late for his dinner， and some of his guests began to arrive before him. These were， however， reassured by his confidential servant， Ivan， the old man with a scar， and a face almost as grey as his moustaches， who always sat at a table in the entrance hall-a hall hung with weapons.Valentin's house was perhaps as peculiar and celebrated as its master.It was an old house， with high walls and tall poplars almost overhanging the Seine；but the oddity-and perhaps the police value of its architecture was this：that there was no ultimate exit at all except through this front door， which was guarded by Ivan and the armoury.The garden was large and elaborate， and there were many exits from the house into the garden.But there was no exit from the garden into the world outside；all round it ran a tall， smooth， unscalable wall with special spikes at the top；no bad garden， perhaps， for a man to reflect in whom some hundred criminals had sworn to kill.

As Ivan explained to the guests， their host had telephoned that he was detained for ten minutes. He was， in truth， making some last arrangements about executions and such ugly things；and though these duties were rootedly repulsive to him， he always performed them with precision.Ruthless in the pursuit of criminals， he was very mild about their punishment.Since he had been supreme over French-and largely over European-policial methods， his great influence had been honourably used for the mitigation of sentences and the purification of prisons.He was one of the great humanitarian French freethinkers；and the only thing wrong with them is that they make mercy even colder than justice.

When Valentin arrived he was already dressed in black clothes and the red rosette-an elegant figure， his dark beard already streaked with grey. He went straight through his house to his study， which opened on the grounds behind.The garden door of it was open， and after he had carefully locked his box in its official place， he stood for a few seconds at the open door looking out upon the garden.A sharp moon was fighting with the flying rags and tatters of a storm， and Valentin regarded it with a wistfulness unusual in such scientific natures as his.Perhaps such scientific natures have some psychic prevision of the most tremendous problem of their lives.From any such occult mood， at least， he quickly recovered， for he knew he was late， and that his guests had already begun to arrive.

A glance at his drawing-room when he entered it was enough to make certain that his principal guest was not there， at any rate. He saw all the other pillars of the little party；he saw Lord Galloway， the English Ambassador-a choleric old man with a russet face like an apple， wearing the blue ribbon of the Garter.He saw Lady Galloway， slim and threadlike， with silver hair and a face sensitive and superior.He saw her daughter， Lady Margaret Graham， a pale and pretty girl with an elfish face and copper-coloured hair.He saw the Duchess of Mont St.Michel， black-eyed and opulent， and with her her two daughters， black-eyed and opulent also.He saw Dr Simon， a typical French scientist， with glasses， a pointed brown beard， and a forehead barred with those parallel wrinkles which are the penalty of superciliousness， since they come through constantly elevating the eyebrows.He saw Father Brown， of Cobhole， in Essex， whom he had recently met in England.

He saw-perhaps with more interest than any of these-a tall man in uniform， who had bowed to the Galloways without receiving any very hearty acknowledgment， and who now advanced alone to pay his respects to his host. This was Commandant O'Brien， of the French Foreign Legion.He was a slim yet somewhat swaggering figure， clean-shaven， dark-haired， and blue-eyed， and， as seemed natural in an officer of that famous regiment of victorious failures and successful suicides， he had an air at once dashing and melancholy.He was by birth an Irish gentleman， and in boyhood had known the Galloways-especially Margaret Graham.He had left his country after some crash of debts， and now expressed his complete freedom from British etiquette by swinging about in uniform， sabre and spurs.When he bowed to the Ambassador's family， Lord and Lady Galloway bent stiffly， and Lady Margaret looked away.

But for whatever old causes such people might be interested in each other， their distinguished host was not specially interested in them. No one of them at least was in his eyes the guest of the evening.Valentin was expecting， for special reasons， a man of world-wide fame， whose friendship he had secured during some of his great detective tours and triumphs in the United States.He was expecting Julius K.Brayne， that multi-millionaire whose colossal and even crushing endowments of small religions have occasioned so much easy support and easier solemnity for the American and English papers.Nobody could quite make out whether Mr Brayne was an atheist or a Mormon or a Christian Scientist；but he was ready to pour money into any intellectual vessel， so long as it was an untried vessel.One of his hobbies was to wait for the American Shakespeare-a hobby more patient than angling.He admired Walt Whitman， but thought that Luke P.Tanner， of Paris， Pa.，was more"progressive"than Whitman any day.He liked anything that he thought"progressive."He thought Valentin"progressive"，thereby doing him a grave injustice.

The solid appearance of Julius K. Brayne in the room was as decisive as a dinner bell.He had this great quality， which very few of us can claim， that his presence was as big as his absence.

He was a huge fellow， as fat as he was tall， clad in complete evening black， without so much relief as a watch-chain or a ring. His hair was white and well brushed back like a German's；his face was red， fierce and cherubic， with one dark tuft under the lower lip that threw up that otherwise infantile visage with an effect theatrical and even Mephistophelean.Not long， however， did that salon merely stare at the celebrated American；his lateness had already become a domestic problem， and he was sent with all speed into the dining-room with Lady Galloway on his arm.

Except on one point the Galloways were genial and casual enough. So long as Lady Margaret did not take the arm of that adventurer O'Brien， her father was quite satisfied；and she had not done so， she had decorously gone in with Dr Simon.Nevertheless， old Lord Galloway was restless and almost rude.

He was diplomatic enough during dinner， but when， over the cigars， three of the younger men-Simon the doctor， Brown the priest and the detrimental O'Brien(the exile in a foreign uniform)-all melted away to mix with the ladies or smoke in the conservatory， then the English diplomatist grew very undiplomatic indeed. He was stung every sixty seconds with the thought that the scamp O'Brien might be signalling to Margaret somehow；he did not attempt to imagine how.He was left over the coffee with Brayne， the hoary Yankee who believed in all religions， and Valentin， the grizzled Frenchman who believed in none.They could argue with each other， but neither could appeal to him.After a time this"progressive"logomachy had reached a crisis of tedium；Lord Galloway got up also and sought the drawing-room.He lost his way in long passages for some six or eight minutes， till he heard the high-pitched， didactic voice of the doctor， and then the dull voice of the priest， followed by general laughter.They also， he thought with a curse， were probably arguing about"science and religion".But the instant he opened the salon door he saw only one thing-he saw what was not there.He saw that Commandant O'Brien was absent， and that Lady Margaret was absent， too.

Rising impatiently from the drawing-room， as he had from the dining-room， he stamped along the passage once more. His notion of protecting his daughter from the Irish-Algerianer-do-weel had become something central and even mad in his mind.As he went towards the back of the house， where was Valentin's study， he was surprised to meet his daughter， who swept past with a white， scornful face， which was a second enigma.If she had been with O'Brien， where was O'Brien！If she had not been with O'Brien， where had she been？With a sort of senile and passionate suspicion he groped his way to the dark back parts of the mansion， and eventually found a servants'entrance that opened on to the garden.The moon with her scimitar had now ripped up and rolled away all the storm-wrack.The argent light lit up all four corners of the garden.A tall figure in blue was striding across the lawn towards the study door；a glint of moonlit silver on his facings picked him out as Commandant O'Brien.

He vanished through the French windows into the house， leaving Lord Galloway in an indescribable temper， at once virulent and vague. The blue-and-silver garden， like a scene in a theatre， seemed to taunt him with all that tyrannic tenderness against which his worldly authority was at war.The length and grace of the Irishman's stride enraged him as if he were a rival instead of a father；the moonlight maddened him.He was trapped as if by magic into a garden of troubadours， a Watteau fairyland；and， willing to shake off such amorous imbecilities by speech， he stepped briskly after his enemy.As he did so he tripped over some tree or stone in the grass；looked down at it first with irritation and then a second time with curiosity.The next instant the moon and the tall poplars looked at an unusual sight-an elderly English diplomatist running hard and crying or bellowing as he ran.