“Ah,” said Wain, with a sort of hiss, “I was waiting for that. In plain words, he is the criminal.”
“In plain words, he is the criminal who didn’t commit the crime,” answered Father Brown calmly.
“Is that your conception of plain words?” inquired Blake politely.
“You’ll be saying I’m the mystagogue now,” said Father Brown, somewhat abashed, but with a broad smile, “but it was really quite accidental. Drage didn’t commit the crime—I mean this crime. His only crime was blackmailing somebody, and he hung about here to do it; but he wasn’t likely to want the secret to be public property or the whole business to be cut short by death. We can talk about him afterwards. Just at the moment, I only want him cleared out of the way.”
“Out of the way of what?” asked the other.
“Out of the way of the truth,” replied the priest, looking at him tranquilly, with level eyelids.
“Do you mean,” faltered the other, “that you know the truth?”
“I rather think so,” said Father Brown modestly.
There was an abrupt silence, after which Crake cried out suddenly and irrelevantly in a rasping voice:
“Why, where is that secretary fellow? Wilton! He ought to be here.”
“I am in communication with Mr. Wilton,” said Father Brown gravely; “in fact, I asked him to ring me up here in a few minutes from now. I may say that we’ve worked the thing out together, in a manner of speaking.”
“If you’re working together, I suppose it’s all right,” grumbled Crake. “I know he was always a sort of bloodhound on the trail of this vanishing crook, so perhaps it was well to hunt in couples with him. But if you know the truth about this, where the devil did you get it from?”
“I got it from you,” answered the priest, quietly, and continued to gaze mildly at the glaring veteran. “I mean I made the first guess from a hint in a story of yours about an Indian who threw a knife and hit a man on the top of a fortress.”
“You’ve said that several times,” said Wain, with a puzzled air; “but I can’t see any inference except that his murderer threw an arrow and hit a man on the top of a house very like a fortress. But of course the arrow wasn’t thrown but shot, and would go much farther. Certainly it went uncommonly far; but I don’t see how it brings us any farther.”
“I’m afraid you missed the point of the story,” said Father Brown. “It isn’t that if one thing can go far another can go farther. It is that the wrong use of a tool can cut both ways. The men on Crake’s fort thought of a knife as a thing for a hand-to-hand fight and forgot that it could be a missile like a javelin. Some other people I know thought of a thing as a missile like a javelin and forgot that, after all, it could be used hand-to-hand as a spear. In short, the moral of the story is that since a dagger can be turned into an arrow, so can an arrow be turned into a dagger.”
They were all looking at him now; but he continued in the same casual and unconscious tone:
“Naturally we wondered and worried a good deal about who shot that arrow through the window and whether it came from far away, and so on. But the truth is that nobody shot the arrow at all. It never came in at the window at all.”
“Then how did it come there?” asked the swarthy lawyer, with a rather lowering face.
“Somebody brought it with him, I suppose,” said Father Brown; “it wouldn’t be hard to carry or conceal. Somebody had it in his hand as he stood with Merton in Merton’s own room. Somebody thrust it into Merton’s throat like a poignard; and then had the highly intelligent idea of placing the whole thing at such a place and angle that we all assumed in a flash that it had flown in at the window like a bird.”
“Somebody,” said old Crake, in a voice as heavy as stone.
The telephone bell rang with a strident and horrible clamour of insistence. It was in the adjoining room, and Father Brown had darted there before anybody else could move.
“What the devil is it all about?” cried Peter Wain, who seemed all shaken and distracted.
“He said he expected to be rung up by Wilton, the secretary,” replied his uncle in the same dead voice.
“I suppose it is Wilton?” observed the lawyer, like one speaking to fill up a silence. But nobody answered the question until Father Brown reappeared suddenly and silently in the room, bringing the answer.
“Gentlemen,” he said, when he had resumed his seat, “it was you who asked me to look into the truth about this puzzle; and having found the truth, I must tell it, without any pretence of softening the shock. I’m afraid anybody who pokes his nose into things like this can’t afford to be a respector of persons.”
“I suppose,” said Crake, breaking the silence that followed, “that means that some of us are accused, or suspected.”
“All of us are suspected,” answered Father Brown. “I may be suspected myself, for I found the body.”
“Of course we’re suspected,” snapped Wain. “Father Brown kindly explained to me how I could have besieged the tower in a flying-machine.”
“No,” replied the priest, with a smile; “you described to me how you could have done it. That was just the interesting part of it.”
“He seemed to think it likely,” growled Crake, “that I killed him myself with a Red Indian arrow.”
“I thought it most unlikely,” said Father Brown, making rather a wry face. “I’m sorry if I did wrong, but I couldn’t think of any other way of testing the matter. I can hardly think of anything more improbable than the notion that Captain Wain went careering in a huge machine past
