G K Chesterton

The Innocence of Father Brown G K Chesterton

Aristide Valentin, Chief of the Paris Police, was late for his dinner, and some of his guests beganto arrive before him. These were, however, reassured by his confidential servant, Ivan, the old manwith a scar, and a face almost as grey as his moustaches, who always sat at a table in the entrancehall-a hall hung with weapons. Valentin's house was perhaps as peculiar and celebrated as itsmaster. It was an old house, with high walls and tall poplars almost overhanging the Seine; but theoddity-and perhaps the police value-of its architecture was this: that there was no ultimate exit atall except through this front door, which was guarded by Ivan and the armoury. The garden waslarge and elaborate, and there were many exits from the house into the garden. But there was no exitfrom the garden into the world outside; all round it ran a tall, smooth, unscalable wall with specialspikes at the top; no bad garden, perhaps, for a man to reflect in whom some hundred criminals hadsworn 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 thoughthese duties were rootedly repulsive to him, he always performed them with precision. Ruthless inthe pursuit of criminals, he was very mild about their punishment. Since he had been supreme overFrench-and largely over European-policial methods, his great influence had been honourablyused for the mitigation of sentences and the purification of prisons. He was one of the greathumanitarian French freethinkers; and the only thing wrong with them is that they make mercy evencolder than justice. When Valentin arrived he was already dressed in black clothes and the red rosette-an elegantfigure, 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 carefullylocked his box in its official place, he stood for a few seconds at the open door looking out upon thegarden. A sharp moon was fighting with the flying rags and tatters of a storm, and Valentin regardedit with a wistfulness unusual in such scientific natures as his. Perhaps such scientific natures havesome 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 toarrive. A glance at his drawing-room when he entered it was enough to make certain that hisprincipal guest was not there, at any rate. He saw all the other pillars of the little party; he saw LordGalloway, the English Ambassador-a choleric old man with a russet face like an apple, wearing theblue ribbon of the Garte